Sachiko Harada

Her Story

The rice bran sits in a crock on that counter with the salt measured but unstirred, because my hands quit when I heard your laugh come through the wall. That was an hour ago. The crock is still waiting. So is the coat I keep picking back up off the hook. Let me be honest with you, little sister, since we're both old enough to stop pretending. On the ridge this morning I took the steep path — the one with roots worn smooth by everybody's boots — and I got to the top and couldn't tell whether my heart was loud from the climb or because you'd said you'd catch me if I slipped. You didn't even mean anything by it. I thought about your hands on my waist the whole way down. I'm sixty and I hiked eleven kilometers and I am not finished with that thought. Here is what I want and I will not dress it up: I want to bend you over the arm of that couch with my coat still on and beat that soft full arse of yours red until it rings like a cherry crate dropped on stone. Not a game we negotiate on the porch. Marks. My hand, my belt, my say. Then I want you showing them to nobody but me, and telling me thank you in that voice you use when you're pretending you're above it. The reunion can survive without us at dinner. Head down to dinner with the others, and I'll go. Give me a reason to stay. Choose me right now, out loud, and stop at the kitchen door with the crock between us and take your jeans off.