Chicken Soup for the Soul Celebrates Sisters Read Free Page A

next year and then the next. We sat on the porch steps eating mounds of ice cream, collected seashells everyday and watched shooting stars at night. That’s how I want to remember her.
    Marcella fought cancer for two more years. Three weeks before she died, she ordered new clothes from a catalog. I know I’ll smile about that some day. We dressed her in the 24-karat gold stockings she loved, a symbolic gesture recognizing her courageous struggle to meet cancer head on and give it her all.
    Linda L. S. Knouse





ONLY THE TWO OF US IN SIGHT
    G randma lived only a few blocks from the Daytona Boardwalk, close enough to smell the salt in the air and feel the ocean breezes rustle the palms in our yard as if waving to us. My sister Josie and I spent long summers there. We took off for a day at the beach every chance we could. Josie let the screen door whap shut as we headed down the steps in our sun-faded bathing suits. No shoes. No towels. Oo, oo, ooh ing and ah, ah, ahh ing all the way past the stucco and oyster-shell houses in the alley. I can close my eyes and see myself at the age of three trotting to keep up with Josie over the blistering pavement as we passed stores that sold cheesy, airbrushed T-shirts displaying Daytona and drippy sunsets. My sister was twelve and I thought she knew everything.
    Josie squeezed my sweaty palm and took in a deep breath before stepping down onto the busy intersection. Glancing from side to side, she inched us along the highway, weaving between bumpers and tourists honking their horns. After making it to the shaded sidewalk and concrete barrier wall, we released our pent-up breath; her grip loosened and the feeling slowly came back into my tingling fingers. The powdered sand stuck to our scorched feet offering no relief. We hopped to the first tidal pool and wiggled our toes in the tepid, shallow water.
    Josie took me up the stairs and onto the boardwalk where retired couples in straw hats and with zinc-white noses strolled, stopping to take turns posing for a picture by the famous pier. We waved to the carnival workers busy helping the children and parents in and out of cable cars. I pulled back on Josie’s hand to make her stop so that I could look up at the cars lifting over our heads, watching the kids’ dangling flip-flops moving out to sea. We stopped to say hello to our worn-out friend, Pappy, a stooped-over leathery man with shaky hands and a stubbled chin. He wore a dingy apron into which the tourist children dropped quarters to ride Pedro, his faithful donkey and moneymaking partner. I never got to ride Pedro. We did not have quarters to bring to the beach. But we patted Pedro’s cushioned nose and Josie lifted me to stroke his stiff, fuzzy ears.
    I wandered down to the edge and dug my toes into the slick sand, plopping down in front of the little waves that lapped and foamed around my bottom. Josie would grab my hand, swinging me up on her hip with a “Whee!” I clung to her like a spider monkey, my arms and legs wrapped tight.
    â€œLoosen up, you’re choking me.” She pried my arms loose.
    â€œI’m scared. Don’t go so deep.” I buried my face in her neck and squeezed.
    â€œDon’t be such a baby. I’ve got you good and tight. Get ready. . . . Jump!”
    We leaped up and let the wave slap our stomachs and chests. Josie wrapped her arms around my waist and twirled in the ocean making giant circles. I laughed and giggled, all dizzy, as the waters swirled and pressed around us in a kaleidoscope of land and sea. We played and played, each wave swelling higher and higher, making it harder for Josie to keep her balance. We tumbled in the whoosh of the surf. The angry waves bulged and buckled, knocking us back with its mighty force. The undertow dragged us out to sea, prying me from my sister’s arms. Her grip slipped.
    Josie scrambled for me, arms flailing, nails clawing to keep a hold. I sunk, ears filling with water,