Melly

By Angie Bromeland

“She entertains herself so easily, doesn’t she?” Grammy said. I smiled and nodded. My little sister, Melly, was a sweet little girl. And Grammy was right. On spring afternoons, sticks became wands, leaves became hats, and wild rabbits became pets.

“She wanders, though, so we have to keep an eye on her,” I reminded Grammy.

Grammy clicked her tongue. “Of course,” she said. Grammy and I were on her front porch sipping apple juice from glass jars. I could see Melly from my chair next to the planter on the porch.

“Hear how she chants! I wonder what she’s saying,” Grammy said.

I smiled because I knew. It was our little prayer—mainly asking to show us where the fairies were. It was Melly’s and my secret, though, so I didn’t tell Grammy. Instead, I pretended to wonder, too. I watched Melly pick up a stone to count the ants beneath it. Grammy sipped her juice and sighed. She closed her eyes and said, “It enchants me, it does, to see a little girl fixed in the magic of the world.” When she opened her eyes, they looked misty. I reached over and squeezed her hand. I knew how she felt. People were always commenting about how Melly never complains and always has a smile on her face. Melly was a special little girl. Even though lots of my friends were annoyed by their younger sisters, I never felt that way about Melly. I could never give my friends any explanation for why I felt that way—I just did. I loved her truly.

Grammy looked over at me. “Melly’s a lucky little girl, Jenna,” she said.

I nodded.

“I mean because she has a big sister like you.” Grammy winked at me.

I squeezed her hand again. I knew I was lucky, too.