…with my sister

The way I look is nothing like you. I would have thought that, being younger, I would have been an exact copy of you. I thought I would have had your curly hair, your green eyes, your thin lips and your plump face. I have, in terms of looks, nothing from you. What I have, instead, is the same way of stopping in the middle of the road to accentuate a story that I’m telling, to use my whole body to give it life. I have your way of laughing when I remember something and your way of listening when there’s no words. I have a laugh that’s gentle when I’m shy, and noisy when I know there’s no one there to hear. I have a gaze that falls heavy on anyone and sees not what they show, but everything that’s hidden. I am, in subtle ways, more than a copy. I am the one you would have been if your hair was straight and if you’d have kept it long, if your eyes were the colour autumn has when the leaves start to turn, and your face would have been not round, but the shape heart takes when it’s full.

I wish that you were here to see. I wish that when I finished school, you would be there, waiting for me. Not anxious at the gates, but relaxed on a bench, your eyes following me from the building, through the masses of eyes and messy hair, among the bags dragged on the hot pavement, past the guard smiling kindly, all the way into your arms, open to welcome me. You would tell me that summer has been waiting for me, that there’s a lot to do. I would ask you where do we start and you would say that I will see. With the school bag still on my back, I would walk next to you and I would tell you all about my summer plans. I would tell you that I intended to get tanned, that I wanted to play volleyball and finally learn how to swim. You would tell me that you read my mind and that the bus that was waiting for us at the corner was taking us to the beach. You would open the zipper to your bag and you would show me that you packed a swimsuit for me and towels to dry after we’d bathe in the lake. 

We would get there and there would be my friends. They, too, still with the school bags next to them, wearing swimsuits brought by their parents or an older sibling. I would run to hug them and we would all run in the water. I would come back to tell you that the boy with dark hair and light eyes stole my heart and you would smile. You would ask if he took it or if I willingly gave it to him. I would blush and I would admit I offered it. We would look towards him and see him wave at us. I would wave timidly back and you would push me to get up. On the way home, we would watch the sunset from the bus and would hold hands. You would ask me if I was nervous about next year and I would nod. You would confess that you were too, that fear didn’t go away with age, but we got braver. You would encourage me to do it all, to do it scared. You would ask me to stay kind, you’d say that no amount of meanness is worth my gentleness. You would encourage me to care deeply, to know that love is not mine to keep, but to gift, to give it willingly and to anyone who was, by no fault of themselves, lacking. I would have questions that I would start to form, but instead of finishing them I would fall asleep, my head a lump on your shoulder.

I wish I didn’t dream you.