Two Sisters and a Half

The Romanians, two sisters and a half-sister with roulettes’ syndrome, lived in a cottage with a dog, two cats and a three-legged chicken. The half-sister had lost all sense of balance, needing both half-sisters to help her get around, each taking hold of an arm, steadying her one step at a time until she reached her destination. She fell down often; both her half-sisters helping her regain her balance, then continuing their three-sister perambulation, knees knocking together like mallets. The man in the hat, lest we forget, was acquainted with the three sisters, having met them at the same church bazaar where the harridan’s sister had a table hawking things she made from scratch, Popsicle stick placemats and napkin holders fashioned out of toilet paper rolls and electrician’s tape. Unlike the bow legged man who met the sisters once, and having had a most unpromising conversation with them avoided them at all cost, even when it meant missing out on church bazaars and eight-pin bowling, which he was no good at anyhow, the man in the hat saw no harm in saying a cheery hello to them three whenever their paths crossed, which they did but seldom, but often enough to warrant an amicable salutation, seldom as they were. The harridan’s sister was working on the cut-out for a winter jacket made from lobster carapaces, using the pinchers for clasps, the soft underbelly for lining and the antennae for stitching around the pockets, both breast and kidney, which she had yet to figure a way of doing without disrupting the integrity of the jacket.