She’s the box on the calendar with “Spring begins” in italics. And she’s a favorite song played over and over until every beat is the irregular heartbeat she was born with. She’s a creaky voice late at night, the bed smelling like dirty dog and clean laundry.
She lives on “just because” and hand-me-ups, piles of things she gives to people who seldom give to her. No, she won’t tell them you cursed or lied or why you really broke up with him. She is promise and promised.
Most of all, she is who I am. Who we are. She is often that voice that could be my own. Sometimes someone so foreign I can’t believe we share those same origins, those chromosomes, that shirt.
She is my sister. Tomorrow she’s twenty-two, but always she’s love.
This touches my heart and soul and I get a little teary everytime I read it.
Love You
Megan