MY MONKEE

MY MONKEE

She got Davy. She always got Davy. And I got Micky. They were the best part of the Monkee’s. The Monkee’s were bigger than Elvis and better than Lassie. And we were just sisters. And I was little and she was big. They were the reason we raced each other down our staircase, around the pantry corner, to our still black and white TV every Monday night at 7:00.

If it weren’t for her I’d have everything I ever wanted. I’d have her side of the room. Davy’s picture would hang right next to my bed. Davy’s face would be the first thing I’d see every morning and the last thing I’d see before mother made us turn out the lights.

If it weren’t for her I’d have those cool, baby blue sheets. I’d have the bigger pillow, the better blanket. And I’d have her “Bummy”, her best friend “Bummy”. Her “NOT REAL” Easter basket bunny rabbit. But I wouldn’t have sucked him till he turned grey. She hugged the pretty pink stuffing out of him, pulled the tickle from his tail.

Everyone knew she loved Bummy more than me.

And why does the “yellow brick road” have to hang on my side of the room, from my part of the ceiling? That long, dangly, double-sided sticky tape weighted in misguided flies. I can no longer lie here on my bed of mismatched sheets, stretch my legs up high and point my toes or I’ll touch it. And I never sleep without my blanket pulled way up over my head. Because I know, some day, one of those flies will come unstuck and land right between my eyes.