Jason Fisk

My wife and I sat in the car after grocery shopping,
and I reached for the hand sanitizer.
What’s that? she asked, pointing to a scar on my hand.
Oh, that’s from my sister, I said,
touching the forty-year-old scar.

Instantly, I flashed back to
when I was eight, and our family
had been given an assorted meat and cheese gift basket.
My sister had been cutting the cheese and sausages
with the miniature meat cleaver that came with the set,
and we started to argue about who got what,
and, like happened so often back then, we got into a fight.
I went to hit her, and she instinctively
raised the miniature meat cleaver.
The blade was about two-and-a-half-inches long.
I ended up punching the cleaver and not my sister.

She laughed
and I bled.

She is gone now.
I miss her.

I’m glad I have the memory.

Jason Fisk lives and writes in the suburbs of Chicago. He has worked in a psychiatric unit, labored in a cabinet factory, and mixed cement for a bricklayer. He was born in Ohio, raised in Minnesota, and has spent the last 25 years in the Chicago area. www.jasonfisk.com