The crib

We were little kids, my sister and I, separated in age by 18 months. I slept in what would now be called a youth bed, of white metal, with a higher rail at the head of the bed but open at the sides near the foot. My sister was in a typical high-sided metal bed. It was brown, and looked like a tall tower. Our mother was not near, probably out doing chores, when my sister woke up crying. She was standing up in her crib and sobbing, wanting to get out of bed. I thought I would help her, so I climbed up on the highest part of my bed, which was close to hers. I managed to wiggle myself over to her bed and dropped down into her tall crib. But instead of being able to help her get out, I was now also a prisoner in her big brown crib. I was thwarted by being unable to help her get out, not to mention worried that I had done something wrong, and I'm sure my mother must have found two crying girls, both prisoners in a single cell, with one unable to help the other. I remember this decades later, and little has changed. My sister is unable to extricate herself from that which imprisons her, and I can't help.