Sixteen was magic, that first year where everything started to come together. Tastes of freedom, independence. A momentary eternity, I once wrote.
My little sister is now there, or almost. Only a couple weeks to go. Thirteen years apart, the gap between us is slowly closing. She was the baby, the reason I could not watch R-rated movies. Now, she is a source of depth, wisdom, and laughter. Although, I guess she was always a source of laughter, possessing humor beyond her years. My little sister is the glue that bound us all together. She makes us one gloriously happy, rambunctious family.
The other night I caught a glimpse into her soul, listening to her recite poetry. She is an artist, not only with words, but with pastels, watercolors, you name it.
I picked this one to share because it reminds me of me, thirteen years ago. Life at sixteen is full of angst and wonder.
These are her words, not mine:
We used to dance through the field like feral butterflies.
Our wings grew and our cat feet lifted off the grass,
wind blew us side to side and kissed our bare cheeks.
Our mouths opened wide and we could see everything
as we let our laughter fill the dry air, making music with the birds.
The sky tasted strong and sweet,
like being held in Grandma Jo’s soft arms and under her warm gaze
in the frigid air conditioning of our Mckinney house.
You and I strutted through those halls,
because we were the coolest people we knew.
But we weren’t really cool at all.
But, still, we grew up
to do a new kind of dance
in the poorly lit, poorly ventilated hall
full of unknowns and familiars
all pulsing and numbing to the elegant drops of Dubstep.
Because they were lost, they knew exactly what to do.
Because they were blind, now they could see
the red hot sweat of rage and passion
filling their lungs and coating their eardrums.
We were the abstract hand prints painted on young, wet skin,
lit up only when the lights went out.
And with daylight we walk, undead,
with crusty eyes through walls and over buildings
and drown in coffee just to get by.
Kat knew, she had seen it all
and what she hadn’t seen would soon be her reality.
She was led down paths and to her fate
on candy leashes and with designer treats.
She had to lose herself to know who she never was.
Todo va a estar bien.
Porque eventually the skies would go back to business as usual
and the sun would lean down and brush tears from her eyes.
And lay us both back down in the neon grasses
in a bed of feral butterflies.
Looking at the world through her eyes…