Alison Klein grew up in
Washington, DC and now lives in
an oddly shaped room in New York
City. She received her BA from
Columbia University and is in her
last semester of an MFA program
in creative writing at City College
of the City University of New York.
She enjoys teaching almost as
much as writing, and is currently
teaching freshman composition at
City College. Her work has been
published in The Columbia Review
and The Sun.
Alison Klein
Holding On
On mornings that it isn’t raining, I walk through the park near my house. Sometimes my brother Morgan comes
with me, since he only lives a few blocks away, in a steam-colored apartment building.
One day he can tell I’m feeling sad. As he talks about his job, I keep squinting through the wet bark of the trees.
“You’re not listening,” he says. “What’s wrong?”
“I never realized before that you can still see the house from here.”
He looks where I look, and sure enough, there it is, grey gables against a slate sky.
He looks back at me and doesn’t say anything.
“I know,” I say. “I know. I should sell it. I just can’t.”
He shrugs, and we keep walking.
We pass a color cart. “Roy g biv, get your roy g biv here,” the vendor calls. “Ten dollar fer a square inch, ten
dollar per inch.”
My brother stops and pulls out his wallet. “Gimme an inch of lemon yellow.”
The vendor reaches into his cart with silver tongs and pulls out a square. Morgan takes it carefully by the
corner, between his fingertips. He takes my hat with his free hand and presses the square onto the felt flower.
The square powders and then melts, and my flower shines yellow as a lamppost.
He hands the hat back to me, and I hold it at arm’s length, admiring.
“What did I do to deserve this?”
“Maybe you did something nice for me.”
“What nice thing did I do?”
“Okay, so you didn’t do anything nice. I guess it’s just because you’re my baby sister.”
“Thanks a lot,” I say.
Another day, we get into an argument.
We are walking by the creek, and I stop to throw sticks into its cloudy surface. “Why don’t you leave, Lin? You
hate it here,” he says.
“I like living near you.”
“But you’re miserable. Maybe you should go somewhere more exciting, warmer, bluer.”
“So you’re trying to get rid of me?” I say, trying to pull off a light tone.
“I’m serious.”
“Maybe I am too. Are you sick of me?”
“You’re exaggerating. I just think you should start taking care of yourself,” he answers.
“I don’t ask you to. You decide to do that all on your own.” I’m trying to keep my voice down so that the people
passing us don’t stare, but it’s creeping higher as I talk.
“You stay here and live in mom’s old house and wear mom’s old coat, and you’ll probably die in mom’s old bed
just like her.”
“Well, at least I won’t have my body sent home in little bits mixed up with locomotive parts like daddy. You don’t
think that’s creepy?” I’m waving my arms around, not paying attention to where I’m going.
“Watch out, you’re getting into the bike path,” Morgan says and pulls me by the arm.
“I don’t need your help!” I yell. I blunder away from him and into a passing biker. He loses his balance and falls
into a color cart. The vendor jumps back as the silver cart crashes to the ground. A cloud of colored powder
rises into the air, spreads, then settles.
“What the hell is your problem, lady?” the biker asks, getting up and brushing lipstick pink off his black trousers.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”
The biker gets back on his bike and pushes off. There’s a patch of pink still spreading on his thigh.
“What am I supposed to do?” the vendor asks, tugging on his cap in frustration. It’s the same vendor who sold
us the lemon yellow a few days back.
“Here, I have twenty dollars, please take it.”
He snatches the twenty. “It ain’t near enough to cover all of this,” he says, waving at the mess. Swimming pool,
cherry blossom, oak leaf and sunburn, they are all crumbling and bleeding together into a muddy brown pool
under his cart.
“I’m so sorry, it’s all I have,” I say.
“Dumb girls,” he mutters. He rights his cart and pushes it away. It wobbles a bit and leaves a trail of sludge.
“Don’t worry about it, it’s not your fault,” Morgan says. “The biker should have been paying attention.”
I’m crying now.
“Here,” my brother says, and hands me his jacket. He takes off his hat and uses it like a net to catch a flutter of
wings that is resting on a bench nearby.
He holds the hat to his chest and touches his finger to small patches of color that have pooled on the sidewalk.
He takes blue, yellow and orange and flicks them into his hat.
Then he turns his hat up, and shows me the swallowtail inside. Aquamarine sweeps across its forewings in a
velvety triangle, and yellow dots punctuate the elegant serrations of the tail. Its wings breathe in and out.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, and reach out to touch it.
But before I can, he takes the middle body segment between his thumb and forefinger and crushes. The
butterfly collapses instantly and is still.
“Why did you do that?” I ask.
He lifts it gently and drops it into my cupped hands, then gives me a sad smile. “This way you’ll never lose it,
right?”
On mornings that it isn’t raining, I walk through the park near my house. Sometimes my brother Morgan comes
with me, since he only lives a few blocks away, in a steam-colored apartment building.
One day he can tell I’m feeling sad. As he talks about his job, I keep squinting through the wet bark of the trees.
“You’re not listening,” he says. “What’s wrong?”
“I never realized before that you can still see the house from here.”
He looks where I look, and sure enough, there it is, grey gables against a slate sky.
He looks back at me and doesn’t say anything.
“I know,” I say. “I know. I should sell it. I just can’t.”
He shrugs, and we keep walking.
We pass a color cart. “Roy g biv, get your roy g biv here,” the vendor calls. “Ten dollar fer a square inch, ten
dollar per inch.”
My brother stops and pulls out his wallet. “Gimme an inch of lemon yellow.”
The vendor reaches into his cart with silver tongs and pulls out a square. Morgan takes it carefully by the
corner, between his fingertips. He takes my hat with his free hand and presses the square onto the felt flower.
The square powders and then melts, and my flower shines yellow as a lamppost.
He hands the hat back to me, and I hold it at arm’s length, admiring.
“What did I do to deserve this?”
“Maybe you did something nice for me.”
“What nice thing did I do?”
“Okay, so you didn’t do anything nice. I guess it’s just because you’re my baby sister.”
“Thanks a lot,” I say.
Another day, we get into an argument.
We are walking by the creek, and I stop to throw sticks into its cloudy surface. “Why don’t you leave, Lin? You
hate it here,” he says.
“I like living near you.”
“But you’re miserable. Maybe you should go somewhere more exciting, warmer, bluer.”
“So you’re trying to get rid of me?” I say, trying to pull off a light tone.
“I’m serious.”
“Maybe I am too. Are you sick of me?”
“You’re exaggerating. I just think you should start taking care of yourself,” he answers.
“I don’t ask you to. You decide to do that all on your own.” I’m trying to keep my voice down so that the people
passing us don’t stare, but it’s creeping higher as I talk.
“You stay here and live in mom’s old house and wear mom’s old coat, and you’ll probably die in mom’s old bed
just like her.”
“Well, at least I won’t have my body sent home in little bits mixed up with locomotive parts like daddy. You don’t
think that’s creepy?” I’m waving my arms around, not paying attention to where I’m going.
“Watch out, you’re getting into the bike path,” Morgan says and pulls me by the arm.
“I don’t need your help!” I yell. I blunder away from him and into a passing biker. He loses his balance and falls
into a color cart. The vendor jumps back as the silver cart crashes to the ground. A cloud of colored powder
rises into the air, spreads, then settles.
“What the hell is your problem, lady?” the biker asks, getting up and brushing lipstick pink off his black trousers.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”
The biker gets back on his bike and pushes off. There’s a patch of pink still spreading on his thigh.
“What am I supposed to do?” the vendor asks, tugging on his cap in frustration. It’s the same vendor who sold
us the lemon yellow a few days back.
“Here, I have twenty dollars, please take it.”
He snatches the twenty. “It ain’t near enough to cover all of this,” he says, waving at the mess. Swimming pool,
cherry blossom, oak leaf and sunburn, they are all crumbling and bleeding together into a muddy brown pool
under his cart.
“I’m so sorry, it’s all I have,” I say.
“Dumb girls,” he mutters. He rights his cart and pushes it away. It wobbles a bit and leaves a trail of sludge.
“Don’t worry about it, it’s not your fault,” Morgan says. “The biker should have been paying attention.”
I’m crying now.
“Here,” my brother says, and hands me his jacket. He takes off his hat and uses it like a net to catch a flutter of
wings that is resting on a bench nearby.
He holds the hat to his chest and touches his finger to small patches of color that have pooled on the sidewalk.
He takes blue, yellow and orange and flicks them into his hat.
Then he turns his hat up, and shows me the swallowtail inside. Aquamarine sweeps across its forewings in a
velvety triangle, and yellow dots punctuate the elegant serrations of the tail. Its wings breathe in and out.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, and reach out to touch it.
But before I can, he takes the middle body segment between his thumb and forefinger and crushes. The
butterfly collapses instantly and is still.
“Why did you do that?” I ask.
He lifts it gently and drops it into my cupped hands, then gives me a sad smile. “This way you’ll never lose it,
right?”
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