My little sister has moved in. She’s 22 years of perfect. Her face is like mine sometimes. Especially when she smiles.
We share a room. My bed will often have a few trinkets spilled on top. The other night I came in late. Immediately, I wanted to chastise her hands for leaning in the direction of my cushiony-sacred-space, laying small girl items that are pink and have multidimensional curls onto my clean sheets. She knows how I feel about my clean sheets.
Her face is like mine sometimes. Especially when she smiles. She has so much life in that face. She will always be my favorite thing, and my heart explodes with love.
Inside the darkness of the room there were ten things atop a black canvas bag in the center of my bed. Gathering the materials with angst, I placed them on her bed, two steps away from mine. In the morning, before I ran to work, the sounds of wood slamming from opening then closing drawers, the smattering of lotion onto skin, my grunting, woke her.
She muttered, “I put that stuff on the bed for you”
“oh” I said.
She went back to sleep, likely til 2pm.
Surveying the items, I realized they were found and collected objects she’d arranged with me in mind. Her hands placed them there, from where they were found, with a thought of her big sister’s satisfaction. Labeled LGBT, was a ribbon, scrunchies for my always tasseled hair, a black tote bag labeled “Women of Color Engineers” for my many books after a shift at the library. One item in particular melted my hard face -a pocket mirror with floss affixed to the other side.
I looked to my side, and saw her figure curled in thin colorful sheets, and couldn’t believe the gift that had come into my life. Family. The bright hopefulness of a young girl,
exactly when I needed her.
Ribbons, round things, a mirror, string, all bound me to her. I wonder if she knows her impact.
I could be her mirror, and hope that she will always smile.