Melba, the weaver

The spider on the door the day my sister was born was an Omen

She would be a weaver

Of words, it turned out.

Three sisters awaited her, ready to mother her

Our mother too joined in the mothering game, sometimes.

Melba became a pampered toddler; mothered by plenty, mothered by none

We would dance around the dinner table or else she wouldn’t eat

One bite of food would unfreeze the dancers

For a few seconds.

I taught her Greek mythology

And she worshiped Zeus, keeping his statue on her night table.

She sat in the auditorium, accompanying me to a lecture on Virginia Woolf

Her legs barely reaching the floor

She listened attentively, was her creative mind setting free?

Did Virginia Woolf actually exist? she asked

She was thirsty for stories, and I for storytelling

We made a good pair

On the streets, we would pretend to know people’s future

The boy standing in line to pay his groceries, I pointed