Found in the basement, an unmarked box, bundled in linens, covered in dust: your third-place gymnastics trophy.
The plastic figurine, a girl, the gold coating rubbed away in places, revealing a less-desirable color.
Eleven years old. Red-and-blue striped wrapping paper crushed in balls, tossed aside. What is it? You know what it is, a trophy. For weeks she has listened to you go on and on about the talents of your friends, a tinge of jealousy in your voice. The proof glimmers on their mantles. Who said trophies don't matter? It's a life of trophy and atrophy. Your father, an ex-professional baseball player, his trophies line the walls of his study. Only when explicitly invited are you allowed in. Look but don't touch. Some of the trophies are as tall as you, some are taller. Why a gymnastics trophy? you ask. For the way you sometimes somersault onto the couch, she says. The cartwheels you used to perform in front of family when you were younger. Your father stares at your mother like she has lost her mind. That night you hear shouting through the shared wall, mostly about the trophy.
Her right leg, raised, bent, meets her raised left arm. Together, they form a diamond. Elegant as a swan. Her left leg is rooted to the gold dais. Her hair is pulled tightly in a pony-tail. Her right arm is reaching, for something.
Around company, your father has taken to calling you "tiny dancer." He invites you into his study so you can "pirouette" to the fridge and get him a cold beer.
The column is the size of a shot glass: bright blue, sequined with white stars.
Years later, when you track down the trophy store and stop inside, you learn prestige is measured by columns. A first place gymnastics trophy has three columns, each nine inches in height. Second place has two columns, six inches each. Third place, a single three-inch column. She wasn't lying, though, when she said there were no trophies for male gymnasts.
Shaped like a trapezoid. Cut from particle board. Proportionally, despite having to support only a single column, the foundation is too small. Nudge it slightly and it topples over.
He leaves in the night. He doesn't say goodbye. In the morning, you shove the trophy in the trash can in the garage. For years you thought it was gone.
On the gold plaque, a name, obscured by the dust. You don't bother to wipe it away.
You notice something. Her eyes—they are closed. How had you failed to notice this before?
He sends a truck to collect his trophies. Your mother, she stands on the front lawn; her legs—columns—are rooted to the grass. Your father, he doesn't have room for second-place trophies. His third-place gymnast hides under the bed in the room that was once his bedroom.
A boy with the same blood. Your brother, almost. His heroics are recounted in every paper. He inherited the athletic gene that bypassed you. Now a high school star. Pick a college, any college. And don't worry about tuition. Your mother worked three jobs to pay your way through school. Still, she is paying off the loans.
Her eyes. You wonder what color her eyes are. Blue, you would guess. To match the tiny column, your half-brother's eyes. Brown, maybe. Like your own eyes, your mother's eyes. Like the back of your father's head, in his study chair; his shadow, thrown against the wall, watches you wait in the doorway.