Dad’s Ginger Beer

By Dreena Collins

We work together in the kitchen. Jennifer takes the lead. Our hands grate ginger, squeeze lemons—fingers fluttering like pianists in unison.

She pours. I hold the bottles. Pink and silver lines cross-hatch her arms: new, old.

I observe the cloudy liquid. It will ferment, pressure building as yeast consumes sugar, and gas rises to fill the void.

“Careful, silly girl!” I mimic gruffly—but the words are fat, heavy with scorn.

“He was a nasty bastard sometimes,” is her only reply.

Then I watch, say nothing, as my sister fills the bottle to the brim, screws the lid too tight.