by Naomi Washer
(She may be married now, but I still can’t see her as a wife.) Underneath a similar skin, our sisterblood runs through veins visible between shoe straps, but I prefer flats. As she comes to the door she falters — slips slightly on the rain-soaked front step — and quickly grasps the door frame. Her rings make a tiny clink against the wood. For all her youthfulness, in this brief moment I have watched her age. Briefly, she is an old woman, with fragile wrists and ankles — defiant, proud, and married — but never a wife.
Naomi Washer is pursuing a B.A. in Dance from Bennington College, where she also studies writing and social sciences. (She likes that when spoken out loud, "6S" sounds like "success.") Her writing can be found here.