I was sixteen and my sister, twenty. She was showing my mother and me some book with gold-edged pages. I handled it and got gold sparkles all over my fingers. I put the book down and said,
"I feel gilty." My mother began to laugh. My sister, intent upon other books in the piles, said, "Don't feel guilty. You didn't hurt it."
"I feel gilty," I said again.
My mother kept laughing and my sister finally got it: "Sheesh," she said.
My sister and I were in a pizza restaurant. I said I liked anchovies on pizza.
"Ugh," she said, "They're so salty!"
"But it's good economics for restaurants to sell them. Anchovies are leftover spoiled tuna, you know. So it's technically spoiled, but there's still a market for them, and it uses up what could otherwise not be sold."
She believed that for years.
I was walking with my friend in the fields. She said something about how nice it was to be walking while the sun was still low in the eastern sky.
"But y'know what, Andrea? Tomorrow the sun's gonna rise in the west."
I didn't answer.
"Whyzzat?" she asked again.
I stopped walking; she walked on.
After several paces, she stopped and turned back.
"You made that up, didn't you."
I love doin' that stuff.