One (Sarah Crossan)

Truth is what happens

Tippi,

half dipped in sleep,

drains her coffee mug and

stares into her scrambled eggs

as though she can read her future in the

yellow and white

swirls.

I never

usually

rush her,

but we can’t be late,

not on our first day of school,

so I quietly clear my throat

—ahem, ahem—

hoping it will stir her from daydreaming long enough

to get going on the marbled eggs.

Instead it is like pouring

icy water into a

pan of hot fat.

Tippi pushes away her plate.

‘You know I’m owed a

goddamn gold medal

for all the times you’ve kept me waiting

over the years.’

So I whisper,

‘I’m sorry, Tippi,’

because I can’t lie and pretend the

throat clearing

meant nothing.

Not with her.

Truth:

It’s what happens

when you’re bound like we are

by a body too stubborn

to peel itself apart at conception.