Nancy Cook

One Sixth

I am one

of six. Sisters.

Nine years, two

months between

oldest and

youngest.

I am one of

the six, fourth

from the top, third

from the bottom,

oldest of the

youngest—

that’s how we

describe things. We live

two in Cleveland

one in Cincinnati,

one in Atlanta, one in

Arlington, Virginia,

and one west

of the Mississippi.

We’re orphans,

our parents dead

twenty-eight and

thirty-seven summers.

Every year we

congregate

in our home town

after Christmas.

We spend

an afternoon

without children,

spouses banned,

just a few

bottles of wine and

everybody’s best

baking. We laugh,

we tease,

we story tell,

we recollect

our mutual past,

the same,

but mostly different

in the ego-

centric plot of

memory. We

never speak

of pay raises,

promotions,

invitations,

kids’ grades, trophies,

jackpots, pounds lost, golf

handicaps—anything

that might suggest

a betterness.

We laugh, we tease,

we downplay and

self deprecate.

But last year,

someone dared to ask

whom our parents

treasured most.

All agree 

our mother had

no favorites and

all agree our father

did.

Six names

mentioned.

After much

animated con-

versation,

the consensus was

still too far away

to be discerned.

We would not

agree. So now

it seems that we

are guaranteed
to never know

who won.