my brother has a Cheshire cat scar
on his ankle,
thin and pale like a waning crescent.
sometimes we tell him that
it's a birthmark from a past life,
or that he got it from getting his foot stuck
in a bear trap
while hunting Bigfoot,
but nobody actually knows how he got it.
only, that's another lie I like to tell.
I know
because I'm the one who gave it to him.

the story I don't tell goes like this:

it is the kind of summer where the cicadas
sound like roaring lions
and you can feel the sweat
trickle down your back so slowly
you imagine there are centipede feet
forming new transit systems
along your spine.
I am seven and my mother still makes me wear
scratchy cotton dresses that I think
I'm too grown up for.
Another lie.
I secretly love them because I can fit my whole hand,
fingers spread apart like starfish arms
in the pocket of the skirt.
we are at the park with my grandmother,
and I am pulling star jasmine
that I plucked from my mother's garden
from the pocket
and stuffing it in the crevices of a rock castle,
cement for our bricks.
I have spent a week building it with my brother
and I am proud.

the brother in question is four
and chases moths in the tall grass,
landing on his face every time
he thinks he's spry enough to catch them.
I'm pretty sure he's mad at me
because I've ruined our castle with my flowers.
actually, no.
he's definitely mad at me,
because when he knocks over our castle
to get my attention,
I run after him
and scream that I'll chase moths with him,
except he's the moth and just doesn't know it yet.
I drive him up the metal slide
that I know he's not skilled enough to climb,
where our grandmother can't see us.
and while he's kicking his way up,
I grab his ankle and I bite him.
hard.
there's a heartbeat of silence and then
firetruck wails so loud I swear the playground
will shatter
so I yank him down and slap my hand
over his mouth.

you bit me, he cries through my grimy palm,
you bit me.
he is shocked, because I am his sister,
and I am supposed to love him.
I am shocked, because I am his sister,
and I do love him,
even though I bit him for knocking down
our castle.
but I am also a coward,
and so instead of apologizing,
I tell him that a huge moth tried to hurt him
and that I bit him so that I could swallow it up
to save him.
when my grandmother comes over,
he has stopped crying but his ankle is still bleeding,
and he begs her not to be angry,
because I did it to keep him safe.
she sends him to the bench,
and when we are alone,
she warns me in her sandpaper tongue
that if I keep telling these stories,
one day he will believe them.

he is sixteen now and we do not talk.
so when he calls me I am so startled that
it feels like I am seven all over again,
my heart racing out of my chest
while I watch him sob.
he says he is calling to talk about the scar
and this time I am preparing myself to explain
that he was branded by a crime lord who tried
to kidnap him as a baby.
but before I can even begin,

he says
I had a dream that I got the scar
because you bit me

the line is suffocatingly quiet
except for my unsteady breathing
as I try to process how it is possible that he could
now of all times
finally remember

he laughs
it's crazy, right?
you would never

and I realize he is waiting for me
to reassure him
so I say
of course not, stupid.
don't you know you got that scar
while wrestling with cobras?
we had to cauterize the wound
to stop the venom from spreading.

I don't need to see his face
to know that he is rolling his eyes,
and he does not need to see mine
to know that I am smiling.

he snorts because these fishtales
never cease to be ridiculous,
and yet,
we both prefer them.

and I'm assuming you saved me
like always?

I think that this might be my first truth in a long time
when I answer:
like always, dummy.
that's a promise.