to my baby sister
You know, I must have said this to you before. In words, in actions, and in any way I can. And I still don’t know if you realize how much I mean it, but I love you. I probably haven’t out and said it as much as I could, but I’m not very good with words unless I’m writing them down on paper, and even then, I’m not a master wordsmith. I’m only good at grasping concepts, and even those are sloppy, half-formed notions in my head. I can’t express myself through words, so I try as hard as I can with physical gestures. But you’re not the type who appreciates those, so I must admit I’m at a loss on how to reach you.
When you were a baby, I remember holding you. You were tiny in my arms, and your eyes were squeezed shut against the light in the room. I remember your eyelids flickering open now and again, and I would see the infant-blue of your eyes.
When you were small, I’d lift you on my shoulders and call you my baby koala. I’d hold you in my lap and fight to be the one to sleep with you at night because you were too little to sleep by yourself. I’d search everywhere for your bottles, and once, when you got tangled in a plastic bag upstairs, I was the only one to hear you crying. When you came to my door because you were afraid of the dark, I always let you in, even though I knew you may or may not wet the bed while you were there.
In preschool, I would rub your back during naptime to make you go to sleep. I knew you were sleeping when your hands would stop clenching and unclenching.
Once when you were sick, I sat at your bed and gave you water to drink because you couldn’t even lift your head or hands to get it. I sat there for a long time, rubbing your back like I did for you when you were two, and wished your medicine would work so you would start breathing right and go to sleep. I don’t know if you even remember it.
When I was in senior year in high school, I helped you with you homework and you told me not to go away to college and leave you alone. I wonder if you’d ask the same thing of me now.
I wished I could protect you from the kids at school who teased you. I wished I could protect you every time I wasn’t there and our father hit you or made you feel bad about yourself, every time he yelled at you about stupid little things or insulted the culture you chose to embrace. I don’t know if you understand how much. I don’t know if you even see some things I do as me wanting to protect you, or if you think I’m just trying to control your life.
I don’t know if you know how much I worry about you, or how much stress I feel about you. When you ran away from a fight with our father and were gone for hours, you weren’t there to see me stress over it. When you stopped breathing at school, I kept perfectly calm until our mother came to the hospital, and then I cried. I worried about you getting lost or hurt when you were walking alone at night, about you getting into trouble at school, about your friends getting you in trouble or fighting with you, and I worry every time you get sick enough that you have to go to the hospital.
Sometimes I wish I could break down and scream this at you whenever you act like I shouldn’t care, or when you act that my opinion doesn’t matter or my feelings don’t matter because it’s ‘not my business’. Especially now that you’re pregnant at seventeen, and every choice you make is so important. I know you want to be independent and make your own decisions, but I wish you could understand how much I care about you. I wish you could understand that it hurts me every time I see you fall.
I feel so useless. But I also feel like you only come to me when it’s at the absolute last moment. I was right next to your room the whole time. I’ve always been here, and I’ve always answered your questions and talked to you when you needed it. Why couldn’t you talk to me? And every time I try to do something, I get pushed away.
I hope that someday, you will realize this. I hope you will listen to me for real.
Until then, I’m waiting for you, right here. I just hope it won't be too late.
When you were a baby, I remember holding you. You were tiny in my arms, and your eyes were squeezed shut against the light in the room. I remember your eyelids flickering open now and again, and I would see the infant-blue of your eyes.
When you were small, I’d lift you on my shoulders and call you my baby koala. I’d hold you in my lap and fight to be the one to sleep with you at night because you were too little to sleep by yourself. I’d search everywhere for your bottles, and once, when you got tangled in a plastic bag upstairs, I was the only one to hear you crying. When you came to my door because you were afraid of the dark, I always let you in, even though I knew you may or may not wet the bed while you were there.
In preschool, I would rub your back during naptime to make you go to sleep. I knew you were sleeping when your hands would stop clenching and unclenching.
Once when you were sick, I sat at your bed and gave you water to drink because you couldn’t even lift your head or hands to get it. I sat there for a long time, rubbing your back like I did for you when you were two, and wished your medicine would work so you would start breathing right and go to sleep. I don’t know if you even remember it.
When I was in senior year in high school, I helped you with you homework and you told me not to go away to college and leave you alone. I wonder if you’d ask the same thing of me now.
I wished I could protect you from the kids at school who teased you. I wished I could protect you every time I wasn’t there and our father hit you or made you feel bad about yourself, every time he yelled at you about stupid little things or insulted the culture you chose to embrace. I don’t know if you understand how much. I don’t know if you even see some things I do as me wanting to protect you, or if you think I’m just trying to control your life.
I don’t know if you know how much I worry about you, or how much stress I feel about you. When you ran away from a fight with our father and were gone for hours, you weren’t there to see me stress over it. When you stopped breathing at school, I kept perfectly calm until our mother came to the hospital, and then I cried. I worried about you getting lost or hurt when you were walking alone at night, about you getting into trouble at school, about your friends getting you in trouble or fighting with you, and I worry every time you get sick enough that you have to go to the hospital.
Sometimes I wish I could break down and scream this at you whenever you act like I shouldn’t care, or when you act that my opinion doesn’t matter or my feelings don’t matter because it’s ‘not my business’. Especially now that you’re pregnant at seventeen, and every choice you make is so important. I know you want to be independent and make your own decisions, but I wish you could understand how much I care about you. I wish you could understand that it hurts me every time I see you fall.
I feel so useless. But I also feel like you only come to me when it’s at the absolute last moment. I was right next to your room the whole time. I’ve always been here, and I’ve always answered your questions and talked to you when you needed it. Why couldn’t you talk to me? And every time I try to do something, I get pushed away.
I hope that someday, you will realize this. I hope you will listen to me for real.
Until then, I’m waiting for you, right here. I just hope it won't be too late.