My boy, his sister and yours truly.
So much love in one picture.
While discussing my friend’s beard, my sister expresses that she does not consider me to be much of a wordsmith. Love this.
My sister just moved in with me last week, and this just happened.
Welcome to living with me and my immature sense of humor.
She was the golden child,
younger, with locks of yellow
ribbons, dancing in curls as
she bounced with her angelic
steps down the boardwalk
holding onto my Father’s hand
as I drifted behind, almost forgotten.
And with every smile, giggle, and
flip of her locks, she manipulated
the air of the room and each eye
was fixed on her whimsical moves.
I fell behind, became the dark
replica, I transformed to a shadow
of what a young girl once was.
I grew to remain as something of
a memory, and spent my nights
in dimly lit bars, finding
solace in the liquid that made me
a different person. And in my dreams
I had silk canary curls, a voice that
was worth adoration and a heart
that hadn’t dissipated and
blended to the shadows I had
been so accustomed to living.
I prayed for sleep, for in my
deepest slumber, I was loved.