One time, my sister asked why

people do not swim when it rains—

her point being they are already wet.

As much as I tried, I could not answer.

In the years to come,

she began to tower over me,

a foot taller to be exact.

Her face grew long,

but not in a dreadful way.

And unlike me, she had a perfect jawline.

My A cups were no match for her C’s.

I still remember the way she’d protest against our mother,

stamping her feet, as if she were three again,

and I, seven, had just broken her toy.

She didn’t understand why she couldn’t wear spaghetti straps to school,

and I couldn’t understand the big deal.

In college, she met a boy named Drew

and she told me she lost her virginity to him.

It wasn’t until my sister started wearing long sleeves in mid July that

I knew something was not right.

When I confronted her, she broke down—

half of her relieved that someone knew her secret,

the other half afraid and ashamed.

One night, she called me after drinking with friends.

She was too drunk to drive, so she told me,

“I called a taxi first.”

I can picture her now,

sitting on the curb in the pouring rain,

without an umbrella because she’s never prepared.

I was alarmed when she started sobbing,

choking on tears that were drowning her.

Then she said eight words,

eight words that still haunt me to this day.

“I don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

We haven’t spoken about him since.