This is how it happened: My mother brought her home in a striped blanket, a tiny woolen hat on her head, eyes shut tight, mouth pursed, fists clenched. I was five. I wanted to hold her all the time. Sometimes my mother let me give her a bottle. I loved the way she looked up at me so earnestly, her lips tugging at the rubber teat, tiny pools of milk gathering at the corners of her mouth. One afternoon, my mother had put the baby down for her nap. I had my friend Tammy over. We were pretending to be witches. We danced down the hall outside my mother’s room, muttering incantations, casting spells. We spied the baby’s crib and saw her little form huddled there under her striped blanket. I think I started it. I’m not sure, but I think I did. I said, “We’re going to take her away! Take her away! Take her away!” We were whispering diabolically, giggling, falling over ourselves, two witches stealing the soul of an infant. Eventually we got bored and went into the kitchen for peanut butter sandwiches and milk.

The next morning, when I woke up, the sky was still dark outside my window. I sat up and felt the cold air, took my sweater from the end of the bed, and pulled it over my head. I tiptoed down the hall to my parents’ room and peeked in the door. They were asleep. Virginia was in her crib; I could see her body under the blanket. I couldn’t make out her face, though. It felt strange to be up before the baby; it was always her cry that woke me. It felt lonesome. I walked into the kitchen. The linoleum was frigid beneath my bare feet. I thought how proud my mother would be if I made my own breakfast. I tried to pour myself a bowl of cereal, ended up scattering cornflakes all over the table. As I was opening the refrigerator, on my toes, stretching my hand up to reach the milk, I heard my mother screaming. I ran down the hall, but my father blocked the door. “Go to your room,” he said. I heard my mother crying out, “I want my baby! I want my baby! I want my baby!” I went into my room and sat on my bed, held my pillow to my chest and prayed. Eventually, the ambulance came.

During the funeral, I stared at my sister’s tiny white casket, willing it to open, trying with all my might to force the lid to move even an inch. If I could kill her, perhaps I could make her live, as well. But there was no magic in me that day. I never told anyone what I had done. The guilt settled into me like a leaf falling to the ground, to be covered by other leaves and snow and earth. It melted into my being.