None will ever know-
I listen to myself narrate our story. It's much like anyone else's and my eyes scan easily over the familiar text. The words flow so easy as I read them aloud to you, you've been so attentive for the last two hours that now I don't even glance up to make sure that you're listening.
"-strength to keep from shaking though even at that she was failing, she probably looked a right mess.....her hand was covered in red and brown blood....fresh and dried. Any minute the disinfectant would meet her wound-"
I know this tale by heart, erm half a heart I suppose would be the proper term. Memorized. That's what I've done. To this warn fading text forever hand-scripted on these yellowing pages. Their hand writing, our parents. I try to capture each moment by changing my voice for each 'character' in this tale of tragedy and discovery. I'm getting to the best part and I'm certain you of all people will fawn over the words.
After all, you act so much like mom. Everyone says so and the more I watch you grow up the more I realize that they're right. My gaze softens at this recollection but the words keep flowing together in perfect sentences. Sometimes I falter over words but you never complain.
"-began to clean the wound she tried to keep her mind on other thoughts...and was doing great...until that accursed disinfectant. The only sound was the quick breath that-"
Of course as I read these words I try to picture how this scene played out. The image of our mother, so very young, younger than we are sitting on the edge of her bed in that forbidding place. Dad gently, tenderly, carefully tending to the gaping wound she had received from that blonde woman who despised her so greatly. Memories make me wonder.
What kind of people were are parents?
Mom had died when we were still kids, and our dad had disappeared even before that due to the war. Sometimes I wish I could travel back in time even if just for a moment, just to see the two of them. To me, dad's just a picture, a face that looks slightly like mine, only a colder gaze to his eyes. Except in pictures of him and mom, or pictures of him that she took. Mom, she was everything. I cling to my fading memories of her face, her voice is just a far off echo in my mind but her warmth somehow still remains.
"-wrapped the bandages around her waist. When he was finally done amethyst eyes slowly opened though she was shaking ever so slightly, she was 'okay'. She was alive...she could live to make another mistake-"
I find myself walking through places now that I've never been, and realize I'm trying to recall if mom ever told us stories about this particular place. Foolish. I realize that, but at the same time whenever I do, somehow she seems to appear before me a gentle smile on her face. She's forever frozen at that age I recall her being last. Or sometimes she'll appear as she does in the pictures of her and dad. Twenty-two, or younger depending on the version of her that appears. Her eyes shimmer with happiness and she reaches her small delicate hand for my own.
Moments like these, her voice will sound in my mind, always just a memory of something she's said to me before. But I don't care, it still has the same meaning, the same value to me. It just goes to prove that she's still here with us even if not physically. But alas the words have continued as I retell the story of their lives to you.
My gaze shifts to you for the first time and my speaking stops. Your eyes are closed and you're curled gently, peacefully wrapped in fur blankets to fight off the cold. I blinked as I watched you breath evenly, slowly, sleep obviously had claimed you from my presence. How long had I been talking to myself? I have no idea, but none the less as I watched your quiet peaceful face a small smile spread across my own face. My gaze goes back to the story before taking a breath and finishing the last sentence I would read to you from the novel tonight.
"-she had received in her shoulder area last time. 'Thank-k you sir...' she commented quietly her gaze locked firmly on the floor."
As I placed the gentle blue-green satin bookmark inside of the book before carefully closing it's worn pages my gaze lingered on the hard oaken book cover. Mom and dad's names were etched in scripted writing onto the front and subconsciously I ran my index finger over the names. My gaze slowly turned to you and a gentle smile crept across my face.
"None will know how lucky I feel, to be the one who can call you 'little sis'. None will know the way your smile can brighten up a room, nor will they realize just how truly beautiful you are. They'll never know this story, they'll never know our story, for you truly are the perfect picture of our mother's image. Sleep well sis, and may dreams bring you hope for the future that will come on the dawn of tomorrow's wings."
My soft spoken words would never be recorded in any books. Nor would they ever be recalled by my lovely little sister. For the realms of dreams had apparently long since captured her mind, and though her subconscious would remember them. She never would.
"-strength to keep from shaking though even at that she was failing, she probably looked a right mess.....her hand was covered in red and brown blood....fresh and dried. Any minute the disinfectant would meet her wound-"
I know this tale by heart, erm half a heart I suppose would be the proper term. Memorized. That's what I've done. To this warn fading text forever hand-scripted on these yellowing pages. Their hand writing, our parents. I try to capture each moment by changing my voice for each 'character' in this tale of tragedy and discovery. I'm getting to the best part and I'm certain you of all people will fawn over the words.
After all, you act so much like mom. Everyone says so and the more I watch you grow up the more I realize that they're right. My gaze softens at this recollection but the words keep flowing together in perfect sentences. Sometimes I falter over words but you never complain.
"-began to clean the wound she tried to keep her mind on other thoughts...and was doing great...until that accursed disinfectant. The only sound was the quick breath that-"
Of course as I read these words I try to picture how this scene played out. The image of our mother, so very young, younger than we are sitting on the edge of her bed in that forbidding place. Dad gently, tenderly, carefully tending to the gaping wound she had received from that blonde woman who despised her so greatly. Memories make me wonder.
What kind of people were are parents?
Mom had died when we were still kids, and our dad had disappeared even before that due to the war. Sometimes I wish I could travel back in time even if just for a moment, just to see the two of them. To me, dad's just a picture, a face that looks slightly like mine, only a colder gaze to his eyes. Except in pictures of him and mom, or pictures of him that she took. Mom, she was everything. I cling to my fading memories of her face, her voice is just a far off echo in my mind but her warmth somehow still remains.
"-wrapped the bandages around her waist. When he was finally done amethyst eyes slowly opened though she was shaking ever so slightly, she was 'okay'. She was alive...she could live to make another mistake-"
I find myself walking through places now that I've never been, and realize I'm trying to recall if mom ever told us stories about this particular place. Foolish. I realize that, but at the same time whenever I do, somehow she seems to appear before me a gentle smile on her face. She's forever frozen at that age I recall her being last. Or sometimes she'll appear as she does in the pictures of her and dad. Twenty-two, or younger depending on the version of her that appears. Her eyes shimmer with happiness and she reaches her small delicate hand for my own.
Moments like these, her voice will sound in my mind, always just a memory of something she's said to me before. But I don't care, it still has the same meaning, the same value to me. It just goes to prove that she's still here with us even if not physically. But alas the words have continued as I retell the story of their lives to you.
My gaze shifts to you for the first time and my speaking stops. Your eyes are closed and you're curled gently, peacefully wrapped in fur blankets to fight off the cold. I blinked as I watched you breath evenly, slowly, sleep obviously had claimed you from my presence. How long had I been talking to myself? I have no idea, but none the less as I watched your quiet peaceful face a small smile spread across my own face. My gaze goes back to the story before taking a breath and finishing the last sentence I would read to you from the novel tonight.
"-she had received in her shoulder area last time. 'Thank-k you sir...' she commented quietly her gaze locked firmly on the floor."
As I placed the gentle blue-green satin bookmark inside of the book before carefully closing it's worn pages my gaze lingered on the hard oaken book cover. Mom and dad's names were etched in scripted writing onto the front and subconsciously I ran my index finger over the names. My gaze slowly turned to you and a gentle smile crept across my face.
"None will know how lucky I feel, to be the one who can call you 'little sis'. None will know the way your smile can brighten up a room, nor will they realize just how truly beautiful you are. They'll never know this story, they'll never know our story, for you truly are the perfect picture of our mother's image. Sleep well sis, and may dreams bring you hope for the future that will come on the dawn of tomorrow's wings."
My soft spoken words would never be recorded in any books. Nor would they ever be recalled by my lovely little sister. For the realms of dreams had apparently long since captured her mind, and though her subconscious would remember them. She never would.
-how precious you are to me.
For all loving older sibling.
For all loving older sibling.
