Pushcart 2026 L: Jane Kalu, “Sickled” from American Short Fiction #79

Uche Okeke, Owls, From the Oja Suite, 1962, ink on paper The first time I ever saw an owl was in the backyard of our childhood home in Enugu. That afternoon, my sister Ije stood by the guava tree feeding corn seeds to the stray pigeons at her feet while I leaned on the back door so that I could watch our dinner cook and keep an eye on her…. Even as I stood there, the late afternoon’s gentle breeze sweeping over my face, I could feel sweat pooling under my arms. I knew it was useless, but I called to Ije, “Isn’t it time to come in?” She rolled her eyes and murmured, “Tufia. Ima enye nsogbu.” This was the way of our relationship. I fussed. She cussed. She was born with sickle cell disease, and, at sixteen, only a year older, I was used to caring for her. I came to know the disease better than she did. Better than our parents. There’s a little truism that therapists used to cite some years ago (maybe they still do, I don’t know) that goes: In a dysfunctional family, the person in…