April 2026 - Vol. 23, Issue 2

My sister is thirteen and on the field. I'm nine and watching from the stands.

The four years between us used to not matter so much. Now it feels like being on a boat while the dock gets farther away. She's going to high school next year. People keep saying fifth grade will be better than fourth, but I feel more lonely already. I don't know how to explain it except that it's like missing someone who's here.

She's always been the one who makes sense and safety.

I understand how softball works. I'm good at that - watching until I figure out the patterns. Three strikes and you're out. Run the bases in order. High-five after someone gets on base. I can learn what everything means if I watch long enough. It keeps me safe.

I get up and walk to the concession stand. I come back with the giant tube of Pixy Stix - purple grape. Not the little paper ones - the plastic tube that's longer than my arm. They cut the top off for me. The smell hits me first - like the Dimetapp my mom gives me when I'm coughing too much.

My sister winds up for a pitch. I tip the tube against my tongue, pour too much in at once.

Something weird happens.

My sister releases the pitch and the grape flavor gets sharper and brighter.

I don't have words for this. It's never happened before. But somehow I understand - the sugar translates. Gives me a different way to understand what watching doesn't show me.

More sugar melts. Her catch tastes smooth. Her run to first makes the flavor zing. The whole inning arranges itself in my mouth, but my sister is always the clearest - because I'm looking at her, because I love her, and because the Pixy Stix just knows that.

This is how I stay with her. Even when she's pulling away into being thirteen and I'm still nine.

Even though I'm on the other side of the wire fence and she's playing.

Too much of the sugar melting now. The grape starts translating everything at once - without asking me first.

The right amount is good.

A little more and it tips over into too much and I'm drowning. I need to find the exact right amount of everything.

I close my eyes. I'm still tasting and feeling and hearing everything. I cover my ears. I could spit out the sugar, but then her taste would be gone.

I swallow some of the sugar, and I let my spit water it down. The overwhelming feeling starts fading.

I feel my sister's grip on the bat through the taste. Her focus makes the grape taste clean and real - no longer medicinal. The pitch comes. The crack of the bat is a taste. Perfect. I feel her running bases. This is what success feels like.

Then it's over. The sugar's all dissolved.

The tube is light and empty in my hand. All the powder is gone. She's still playing - two more innings. I'm sitting here back to my regular way of understanding - things I can predict but not feel.

My dad is sitting next to me on the bleachers, watching the game. He also has to figure everything out by watching. He gets it - needing things that help make the world make sense.

"Can I have a dollar fifty?"

He reaches for his wallet and pulls out two ones and hands them to me. He doesn't ask why.