Rise Up

Two miniature figurines sit on my bookshelf. They were the first objects my mother laid to rest in this bedroom when I was a baby. It seems just, apropos, that they're the last things to be taken down and packed away before I leave.

They're too dusty to be packed away with my other things; one little whisper of oxygen spreads a gray cloud of dust into the air. I cough and sputter, finally sneezing. When the fit subsides, I take a look at what I've unveiled.

The wizened face of a porcelain jackrabbit stares back at me.

Suddenly, I remember why they've been hidden behind piles of Shakespeare, Frost and sheaves of notations from my honors music theory class; those rabbits used to scare me positively to death.

"Rabbit's gonna suck your brains!"

And now I remember why.

"Bart! We both know it's been biologically proven that rabbits are vegetarians!"

He strolls into my room - without knocking; he's twenty-one years old and he still doesn't knock - with the confidence of someone twice his height and intelligence. "So? Maybe they haven't left a rabbit in a cage with a big, juicy t-bone. Most people won't turn that down."

He's teasing me, and I've reached a point in my life where the camraderie between us feels much more important than quibbling over some wrong he may have made. "Come on and sit down."

Bart, for once, listens to me, placing the cardboard box of my earthly belongings between us as he sits on my bed. "So, how long's the ride to Harvard?"

"About three days out. Alison said she wanted to be tourist-y before we arrive." I snort derisively. "'Tourist-y! That's not even a word."

Bart smirks as he asks me, "you sure you can live through three days of driving around with Alison Taylor riding shotgun?"

Alison and I are fairly friendly, closer than we were in our childhood years, and it probably won't be the nightmare I'm afraid it would be. Yet, sometimes, being Alison Taylor's friend is like chewing tinfoil. "I have to. She's paying half the gas."

The answer satisfies Bart, not that his attention span can hold ground on a subject as boring as he finds Alison for long. His eyes seem to crawl along the bare walls and empty shelves of my room, as though they can't quite believe that I'm really moving out. We're in tuneful sympathy for once, and I can close my eyes and remember being sixteen and sitting on his stripped bed, trying to help him decide which issue of Radioactive Man would be most able to get him through the dangerous nights of Capitol City.

Bart pulls something from the cardboard box and laughs out loud. "Ha! You still keep this?"

I blush when I realize that he's holding my framed, stock-carded note from Mister Bergstrom. "Excuse me, but it's a fond memory...." My eyes scan the items in the box. "Just like THESE!"

He yelps when I pull free his old Krusty The Klown doll. "I thought mom threw him away when I moved out!"

"She did."

"You saved him for me?"

"Actually, Maggie did. But she wanted to keep him for blackmailing you, so I hid him."

"Thanks, Lis."

"You're welcome." I place Mister Bergstrom's note and one of the porcelain rabbits back inside of the box, before taping it up. Feeling Bart's gaze as it rests upon my head, I meet it when the box is sealed.

There's a surprisingly wise sadness behind those eyes. Somehow, I'd forgotten that Bart can feel as deeply as I do.

"So, why are you here?" I ask, to diffuse the tension.

"Oh...Homer needed some help with the car."

I wonder why I can't hear my father cursing downstairs. Bart picks up on my confusion.

"He found bikini mud wrestling on TV."

I can't resist a chortle. "He's been hiding down there for awhile."

"He's gonna miss you when you go tomorrow, Lis; a lot of us are going to."

"Really? Even my hot-shot businessman of a big brother from Capitol City?"

"Yeah. Especially him."

I smile. "If you can't believe I'm going to college, just think about how I feel."

He lets the silence linger between us for a moment, then says, "If you need anything, ever, you've got my number."

"You're very generous, Bart. But I'm going to try self-sufficiency for as long as I can."

"I don' t mean just for money stuff. If some jerk ever says anything about you Lis, or does anything; call me, and I'll beat him up."

Downstairs, my mother calls us for dinner, and I know it will be impressive; a rare days in which all of her children are together, for her to display her culinary skills at their highest.

"Mom's going to miss us."

He stands and shuffles to the door.

"Bart?" He halts

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

He smiles, waveringly. "Don't get mushy on me, Lis."

When he leaves, I tuck my cardboard box beneath my breast. I fill a doorframe that once dwarfed me, and a thousand memories play out in dramatic fashion before my eyes.

Learning how to spell with my old wooden blocks, which also taught me how to tattle on my big brother.

Thousands of hours of peaceful meditation and solitude, but also days of screaming, fighting, vocal gymnastics. Riding my bike down the street, racing Bart to the Kwik E Mart, the ribbons on my handlebars flying. Attending my Junior Prom with Milhouse, Bart spending the entire night glaring at him, watching out for any untoward move he might make. Staying up all night with Maggie, too excited to sleep, knowing that the state swim meet would take place the following day, knowing that Maggie would lead her division.

All of these pieces of me collect to become my humanity, my corporal shell and my spiritual essence. I take them with me with I turn off my lamp and join the family reserve downstairs for pork chops and applesauce.



The End