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by Liz McAdams

It was a Saturday morning that my sister disappeared. She was wearing her yellow sundress and I had on my green one. People said we looked like twins. I said we didn’t, because I was five and she was only three, but they just laughed.

That morning mom told us to go outside and play in the backyard. Housecleaning day. She peeked out the kitchen window every now and again. I waved. When the phone rang, I figured it was Aunt Gladys. She always calls. Mom says she’s lonely.

I was playing garden in the sandbox when the man pulled into our driveway. My flowers kept flopping over in the sand, so I was busy putting little rings of pebbles around them. It held them up. Mom’d be happy to see my garden, it almost looked real.

When my sister saw the man she ran to the fence and was soon busy talking. She talks a lot. To anyone. Kinda like Aunt Gladys. She stood on top of her wagon so she could see even better; his big shiny car was parked in our driveway. He asked if his puppy came into our yard.

No it didn’t.

My sister loves dogs. Not me, I like cats.

I was trying to get an iris to stand up in the slippery sand when he lifted her over the fence.

When mom came out I ran to show her my garden. I finally got all my flowers to stand up right. I knew she’d be pleased.


A romantic and a realist, all in one, Liz McAdams lives in the wilds of Canada, with her family and three black cats. Her writings, ramblings, and blog posts are found scattered across the internet.

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