Your older sister is the amusement park at the end of the boardwalk, the one that’s been in the mayor’s family for a century and looks it; the one the mayor doesn’t maintain because the newer one, halfway down and closer to the big hotels, gets all the foot traffic these days, so why bother?
Your sister used to be the tilt-a-whirl, or maybe the teacups, careening you in circles, breathless with laughter, falling on your knees, dizzy. Now she is a roller coaster not fully on its tracks, your stomach dropping on every plunge. Today might be the day she derails.
You can’t eat the food at your sister’s even though you love custard and Chipwiches and powdery funnel cake so hot it burns the roof of your mouth. Your sister has failed the health inspection. She does not wash her hands after using the bathroom; there are mice in her kitchen. She put bleach on the fries instead of vinegar. She claimed it was an accident, but you have doubts. The chest pain, the breathing problems were the same either way.
After the hammer incident, your sister is the Ferris wheel with two carriages sent out for repair. You’re unsure which is more frightening: the shattered stubs of her front teeth or her refusal to get them fixed. She’s the carousel with peeling paint. The new pills dry her skin, leaving it to flake into dusty pieces, like feathers on a moth’s wing. It’s been so long since your sister soared.
Your sister is a mirror maze you can’t find your way out of, her reflection distorted into the unrecognizable, every turn a prayer that she stays on these meds. She always goes off them when she’s feeling better, insists she doesn’t need them anymore.
After Labor Day, when tourist season ends, your sister is the amusement park the mayor boards up half-heartedly. No one is surprised this year’s closure is permanent, the rides to be packed up and warehoused elsewhere. The mayor says he had no choice; he could not afford the bills. He wishes there could be a different outcome.
Your parents say the same.
Now your sister is the haunted house you always hated, the one with fluorescent paint more childish than chilling, the one with balls on springs that grab your ankles at every step. You lurk in her doorway, primed for fast escape. Still, she jump scares you from behind the bed, the dresser. Memories pour from the closet, all the more terrifying because they are good ones, reminders she was once the log flume splashing away the heat; the bumper cars jolting you into giggles; reminders that architecture is genetic and you or your children could become a haunted house, too.