Ponytails

By Joshua James Jordan

The spasms from my lungs speckled the handkerchief with crimson. I looked at my sister. “Becky likes to sing the Itsy Bitsy Spider before bed.”

She smiled back at me. “Don’t talk like that. You’re going to be fine.”

I laughed, which brought on another fit of coughs. “Please. I’ve lied enough to myself for one lifetime.”

We looked at a picture of us as children, compared it to my daughters. Ponytails and innocence.

“What else do they like?” my sister asked.

I told her every detail, reliving every memory, feeling more and more at peace. “Show them my picture sometimes.”