Winnie and her sister Alma hadn’t seen one another in weeks. Winnie was busy with her new house, her fruit trees, and her granddaughter’s preschool graduation. Alma wasn’t coming out of her house as much anymore. So, when Alma had called, Winnie was quick to offer up her new kitchen table for dinner. 

          Alma was on her way over. Winnie hurriedly finished up the stew. In her rush, she burnt her finger on the side of the stew pot. 

          “This darn thing,” Winnie said. She winced. It stung, and she felt the heat dig under her skin. She wrapped a Band-Aid around the burn right as her skin started to blister. Winnie folded the potholders over the handles of the stew pot and carried it to the table. She wiped down the counter. She laid the bowls and the spoons.  

 

           Alma had walked easily up the porch stairs. She had blown on her spoon before putting the warm soup to her lips. When Alma would smile and make conversation, it was easy for Winnie to convince herself that things were not as they were. She was the same old Alma. Older sisters hardly age. Older sisters hardly get sick. Older sisters hardly ever change at all. 

          Seated across the table, Alma peered out the window past Winnie’s shoulder.  

         “This is nice. I’ve always wanted a house on a hill,” Alma said. 

         “Isn’t it just gorgeous? No one has ever commented on the hill when they’ve come over,” Winnie said. 

          “That’s a shame. I would’ve thought it’d be something that people would admire. I always thought I’d have plenty of time to move into a house with a view like this. I guess taking time took all my life,” Alma said. “Darn it, how’d we get so old?” 

          “We? Hey now,” Winnie said. And Alma laughed. 

          Winnie was grateful then, when she thought about the sweeping green valley that she could observe any time she pleased. She bought this house to move closer to her granddaughter. She thought a child might like to play in this yard. Winnie could teach her how to identify the ripe pears on her pear trees. What a gift it was—to surround herself with vivid, lively things. Winnie picked at the Band-Aid on her finger, patiently watching her sister as she ate. Slowly. Pensively.  

          When Alma finished her soup, Winnie gathered their messy bowls in the sink. 

          “Shall we swing?” Winnie asked. Alma nodded. They made their way to the back porch. 

 

          Though Winnie usually had to hold on to the doorframe when she stepped out onto the porch, watching Alma do the same suddenly seemed like a bigger deal. Winnie had just seen her granddaughter run and jump out that door a few days prior. She thought it funny how time planted a woman’s feet more firmly on the ground. Winnie wondered if she herself would ever jump again. 

Alma sat down on the porch swing.  

          “How many shooting stars was it that you saw that summer we first started watching the sky at night?” Alma said.  

          “It was ten,” Winnie said. She sat down beside her sister. 

          “I knew you’d say that,” Alma said. “Because it wasn’t ten. It was nine, I distinctly remember.” 

          “No, it was ten,” Winnie said. 

          “Well, no. It was nine. Because I told you I saw nine too, but I was lying,” Alma said. “I had only seen eight. I just didn’t want you to think you had seen more than me.”  

         Winnie scoffed. “Oh, how kind of you!” 

         “Hey, just being honest!” Alma said. She patted the top of Winnie’s hand. “I just wanted you to know.” 

         They rocked forward, backward, forward in the swing. They had watched the stars every summer until Alma grew up and moved out of their house. Those next few summers before Winnie moved out as well seemed bare. Winnie could still smell the cooling grass and the dark, expansive night sky freckled with stars. The sky before them now was blushing orange and pink. Winnie watched the gold of the setting sun wash over the blades of grass in her yard. 

         “Ah, it’s great to feel the wind,” Alma said. “I’ve done my fair share of wearing bed sheets for months at a time.” 

          Winnie’s stomach twisted at the mention. Alma didn’t often talk about her bouts of sickness.  

         “Your fair share. Definitely,” Winnie said. She picked at her band-aid. She felt sorry for her sister. “Shame that you might have to do that again.” 

          “Do what?” Alma said. 

          “Wear bed sheets for a while,” Winnie said. She gave her sister a half-hearted smile. 

          “Oh, I don’t think I’ll want to do it again,” Alma said. “It’ll be time for me to go.” 

          Winnie suddenly felt aware of every sinew behind her skin. She inhaled. She exhaled. They rocked backward, forward, backward in the swing. 

          “I don’t know why you would say such a thing,” Winnie said. Alma didn’t respond. Instead, she fixed her eyes on the setting sun. Winnie thought that if her heart were beating any louder, Alma would hear it. The worms below the dirt in her yard would hear it thudding against her chest. Older sisters hardly give up. And this sounded, to Winnie, like giving up. 

          “Gosh, I remember the first time this dread started,” Winnie said. “Grandma kept telling us about how content she was. And how proud she was of the life she had lived. I kept thinking that each visit with her might be the last one. Do you remember?” 

          “Yes, I remember,” Alma said. “But I felt the dread more when mom started to go. She stopped wanting to drink the tea that I’d make her. Every now and again I think of heating up some tea, but I haven’t been able to do it since. It’s just weird, even after all these years, without her sitting with the steam and the smell—and, you know, without her sitting next to me.” 

          “Then why wouldn’t you try to get better?” Winnie said. “If it happens again.” 

          “It’s—well—it’s too hard to go through all that,” Alma said. “Grandma was right. About pride. I know that now. I feel proud of everything I have and everything I have done.” 

          Winnie felt her heart slow at the thought of Alma’s world—her family, her collection of tiny sewing buttons, her blue childhood bedroom door. She picked at her Band-Aid.  

          “Winnie, you know how much I love cheesecake?” Alma said. Winnie smiled to herself. 

          “Of course,” Winnie said. 

          “Do you remember that time I ate so many slices of cheesecake at dinner that I threw up on your blanket in the car?” Alma said.  

          “Yeah,” Winnie said.  

          “You can only have so many slices before the flavor gets dull,” Alma said. “No point in being greedy about it.”  

          Winnie caught the corner of her band-aid. She pulled it off her finger. The burn from the pot didn’t sting anymore. It festered and it bubbled, but it did not sting. She knew it would get better with time. They rocked forward, backward, forward. Older sisters hardly ever change at all. 

          “I haven’t picked the pears yet today,” Winnie said. “The trees are quite fruitful these days. Do you want one?” She wanted her sister to feel full. 

          “Alright then,” Alma said. 

 

 

          Alma watched Winnie descend the porch stairs and wander over to the line of pear trees in the yard. Winnie took her time admiring the branches in search of the best, most fresh, and moth-free pears. She selected two and smiled at Alma as she passed her to go into the house to wash the fruit.  

          Alma rocked backward, forward, backward. She knew that there would soon be a day in which Winnie will watch a sunset that Alma will never see. It didn’t scare her to think that the world moved on all the same. It saddened her, but it didn’t scare her. Winnie would still be right here. 

          Winnie returned with a delicate, painted plate of sliced pears placed on a folded paper towel. They were soft, juicy, and the fibrous skin itched at their tongues as they ate.  

          “Let’s take a photo,” Winnie said. As she pulled her phone from her pocket, Alma noted Winnie’s soft yellow cotton shirt crumpling across her back from the weight of her body against the back of the swing. Winnie dragged her thick pointer finger across the screen. They leaned their faces into one another—freckled cheeks smushing together, shimmering eyes searching the camera lens, teeth bared, their white strands of hair tangling between them and brushing against their ears.  

          “I don’t know why everyone always has to say cheese. Nothing wrong with a bit of silence,” Alma said. 

          “Oh, ’cause you’re so good at being quiet, is that right? Winnie said. And Alma laughed. 

          “My grandson showed me something I want to try. Lift that camera up here.” Alma stood up, turning to face Winnie on the swing. She held out her hands side-by-side as if she were scooping water from a fountain.  

          “Angle the camera just right so I can hold the sun,” Alma said. 

          Alma lifted her hands, attempting to line them up with the base of the warm glow behind her. Winnie snapped photo after photo, squinting at the screen to find the perfect shot. Alma sat back down on the swing and peered at Winnie’s screen as she swiped through the resulting photos.  

          Alma felt herself grin at her own smile reflecting at her. The rays of the setting sun cast themselves outwards from her cupped hands. Even now, after the tiresome days of impatience and fear, light was coming from her. Deep inside her chest, she was on fire. From the look on Winnie’s face, Alma knew that Winnie also felt that to be true. They rocked forward, backward, forward. 

          Alma’s eyes caught sight of a clump of tall moving grasses at the edge of Winnie’s yard. Winnie seemed to notice when Alma stopped chewing on her pear, and her eyes followed Alma’s. The grass shook, giving away the location of a creature hidden inside. Alma saw Winnie smile. 

          “I’ll bet you can’t guess what animal that is,” Winnie said. “She comes to visit me every so often.” 

          “It’s got to be large,” Alma said, squinting. “Like a fox, maybe? Or a…a bear?” 

          “A bear? Alma, why would it be a bear?” Winnie said. 

          “Well, I don’t know!” 

          “Shh,” Winnie said. A deer—a doe—stepped out of the grass into the yard. The doe bent her neck to the ground and sniffed at the grass. She strode underneath the pear trees. The doe stopped in the center of the yard. She turned and stared at Winnie and Alma. Her ears fluttered. They smiled. The doe bowed her head once more and then crossed the rest of the yard and disappeared around the corner of the house.  

          Alma smiled at Winnie. She took a bite out of a slice of her pear. 

          Alma watched the sun set. She thought of the sock she lost in her laundry a few days prior and wondered where it could have gone. She thought of gyros and all the different kinds of jumping jacks. She thought of her first pair of safety scissors, the color of the walls in the hospital room her son was born in, and the tug on her dress when he came to her with his first drawing. She thought of the blueberries coated in chocolate that her friend would bring her for the holidays every year. Alma thought of her face in the mirror—the way her features got rounder, wiser, deeper, kinder—and the days, every so often, when that face would be the only familiar face she had seen. Crowds surging ahead, crowded rooms making her sweat, the space on the couch reserved for her grandfather that she never met. Mom never let anyone take his seat. Alma thought of Winnie’s green bike, Winnie’s unmade bed, her after-school chips, her tears, her songs, and her missing sock and she wondered where it could have gone.  

          There really would never be enough time at all. But what she had was everything. And that was not lost on her.