My Stolen Sister

She was one of two sisters of mine. She was physically strong, graceful, and dedicated to gymnastics. Out of four children, I was sure she would be the most successful. She had such discipline and drive. Her name was Rica.
She built a high jump in the back yard. It was made from branches that had fallen from the old silver beech tree. She dove and tumbled over that high-jump until the dark came, and then, she'd dive some more.

Rica saved her Halloween candy until it became stale, she was sensible, she didn't eat it all at once like me.

We lived in a suburb outside of Philadelphia. We were upper middle class I'd say, my father earned a good living in the city. We lived in a nice house, we had two cars and plenty of food and furniture.
I never did well in school, I day-dreamed a lot about girls, I wasted the tips of my pencils drawing pictures of naked women in a note book.

Rica worked at her gymnastics tirelessly. She got better and more refined; she always defeated her competition. No one trained like her. She got good grades in school. After she finished tumbling in the soft Bermuda grass, she'd leave the back yard and hit the books with the same vengeance. Rica never let up.
She found a pipe and some pot of mine one day. She replaced the pot with oregano. Rica hated drugs. Later that day, I shared some of my stash with a couple of pot-head friends of mine. The smoke tasted like pizza, and I vowed to kick the ass of the dealer who'd ripped me off. Rica came to me later and told me about the oregano, she had tears in her eyes. She asked me: "Please stop smoking pot." I knew Rica was very serious, I told her I'd stop and I did.

Rica studied, and I flunked every course at school with the exception of gym and art class. Rica scored high grades with ease. She tumbled and mounted the pummel horse with supple loveliness. She had friends that earned their places by her side; she was the center of their kid universes. They hung on to what she had to say, she walked the walk and they all knew it. She presided over meetings that neighborhood kids always had about whose basement would host the next sleepover, or who would be chosen to ring the Funkwaller's doorbell for the one-thousandth time. In the fall she'd rake the leaves from the browning grass, keeping her practice area clear. My father would watch her from the living room on the weekends, cocktail in hand, marveling at the work ethic his daughter possessed. He would say things

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