BIO:
Andrew Plattners lives in Atlanta, Georgia, and teaches world literature and fiction writing at Kennesaw State University. He has forthcoming fiction with Nimrod International Journal.
My 62-Year-Old Sister
A bench in the park, under the canopy of willows in the falling rain, the sounds of the Atlanta
Jazzfest carrying past the lake. Linda May Han Oh. Yesterday, my 62-year-old sister emailed,
said she had 38 cents in the bank. She said it to make me laugh, reminded me she’d been in
similar spots, quite a number of them, in fact. Who can’t use a good laugh? I wrote back and told
her what I always tell her. You know where to find me. Puddles have formed in the low spots of
the asphalt path that leads to the lake, which is surrounded by dogwood trees. I can listen to the
music though cannot see the crowd or the stage.
A memory: When I lived in Mississippi, I once had a dream about a horse named A
Letter to Harry winning a big race and when I checked the entries the following day, I saw it was
running in a race in New Orleans. Excited, of course, I drove to the bank and made out a
withdrawal slip only to find out my savings had a balance of $12. I recall the clerk apologizing. I
withdrew $10, left $2 in there so I could keep the account.
I drove fast, accompanied by a lot of thunder and lightning. For a second I thought Lake
Pontchartrain Bridge had disappeared under the water. No matter, I made the race on time and
the horse lost. On the drive back, the skies cleared, a blue like from a storybook. Lost my ten,
right at dead broke, I felt elated. That spooky kind of happiness that doesn’t make any sense, so
you must convince yourself that you are fearless and you are free.
The leaves of the willows allow some drops through. The music seems to mix perfectly
with the sound of the falling rain.
