To Symmetry
you may tire of me
I traced her angles under a watchful eye, bending and twisting my own in hopes of recreating the arch of her spine. She was stocky and deliberate as she balanced upon the thinning sidewalk. Opening and closing her hands over the yellow rope, she pressed obscure patterns into her palms. I stared at my fingers and frowned. They were smaller than hers, lean and different. We moved slowly as she tugged at the golden line, fantasizing of the adventures we would share, just ours alone. Restless and eager, I shifted my weight behind her. Pausing, she turned her frame towards mine to give me that familiar unsettling look.
“Stop doing that,” she demanded. “You’re making it harder to pull.”
I glanced at the board beneath me, its wheels hardly turning. All the while she jerked brashly at the cord. With a red bandana clutched tightly under my chin and my ribcage compressing until my heart leapt into my throat, I braced myself for violent words. But a long strange silence hung in the air and everything collapsed. A fearful hunger stirred within me as I waited for her to speak. She was a delicate balance of obedience and distance. To tip the scales was to jeopardize her affection, to commit to affliction. It wasn’t until she offered a small smile and tacit absolution that I dared breathe.
Five years before my sister moved out of one house and into another, we decided to run away together. Without hesitation, I followed her lead. Scrambling upon countertops, I reached for cabinet doors and plucked the remaining Oreos from a worn plastic bag, just as she had requested. We wrapped them in a small handkerchief, an unavoidable anxiety dwelling in our bones. She nodded, an unspoken indication that I had done good, and a grin brimmed my cheeks. She handed me a spool of fraying yellow rope, watching as I wrapped it around the axel of an aging skateboard. I turned towards her, awaiting any gesture of approval. She held my gaze with round grey eyes much like those of our mother, and my smile dwindled.
“Okay?” I suggested.
A hum hollowed on her lips and a comforted curve graced my mouth again.
“Where are we going?” I asked her, even as she’d told me countless times that day.
She recalled the spacious greenhouse behind her father’s rackety suburban home, just several intersections away. She promised we could stay there for days without anybody intruding our Neverland, a place that was ours alone, unyielding and imperishable. She promised we wouldn’t get caught and that even if we did, our mother couldn’t be angry with us because at least we were safe and home again. With a breath of relief, my doubts escaped me. I trusted her and not a single fear could weaken that faith. Naturally, I had to believe in her. It was important for me to believe in her; she knew me better than anybody could ever attempt to.
As I settled upon the board, my sister took the yellow line in hand. She looked at me expectantly as if our success rested solely on my shoulders. The responsibility was frightening, and still I embraced it. It was my opportunity to show her that I was strong and smart, to show her I could handle this. I could handle her.
“Ready,” I confirmed, anticipating the first tug at the rope.
She walked with intention, but even so her nature was inviting and affectionate. As we slowly wandered away from our home, she swore she had never felt such exhilaration. She spoke passionately of our goals and tempted me to speak. While I would never offer more than enthusiastic agreements, I felt a comfortable closeness with her. I grew to believe that I was meant to be there, seated upon that stiff skateboard, following in my sister’s footsteps. And more importantly, I was there because she wanted me to be.
But as our journey dragged on, our excitement dwindled. I watched she tired of pulling and I feared that I had become more of a burden than a friend or a sister. I twitched nervously, wondering if we would ever reach our destination. It was what I had waited for, the chance to be more than just an obnoxious copy cat who tiptoed behind her, and it was quickly disappearing before me. I scrambled for something that might make it better, but my words were knotted in my mouth and all I could salvage was doubt.
“We’re alright, aren’t we?” I prayed aloud, clasping my hands overtop one another.
She shrugged her shoulders, lifting them to her ears and allowing the fall again with ease. I mimicked her motions over and over again as she walked blindly ahead, but my gestures were mechanical and contrived. I realized then that, despite my efforts, I could never emulate her. With a gasp of frustration, the plank beneath me tipped and I was thrown to the cold cement. My breath hitched as she turned towards me. Again, I prepared myself for hurtful words, but instead she reached out her hand, lifting me from the ground. She picked up the skateboard, tucking it beneath her arms, and tipped her head towards home.
“Are you sure,” I pleaded, as if I could have changed her mind.
She just nodded and turned away from our Neverland. I had no choice but to follow, an obvious aching in my chest. We reached that familiar doorstep far sooner than I’d hoped, and its intimacy seemed callous upon return. My sister tosses the skateboard hastily inside our tumbledown shed, its hollow slopes having given way to petite fingertips. She told me to come inside because our grandmother had probably noticed we’d left and we didn’t wanted to get into any more trouble than we already were. I wondered if she’d noticed how easily she’d broken her promises, but she just pulled at my hand as she had done to the yellow line minutes before.
Five years later, when my sister moved out of one house and into another, she didn’t make any promises. I looked at her with unchanged adoration and naïve optimism. Somewhere within me still lingered an itching desire to live up to her name. The years of hostility and betrayal failed to hinder our affinity and my trust in her never faltered. Even as she tore through bedrooms, stuffing them into taut suitcases, I wanted to believe in her.
“Where are you going?” I asked. “Don’t leave,” is what I’d meant to say.
She stood at the doorstep, her hand clasped around a large blue backpack, and recalled those ramshackle greenhouses behind her father’s house that had once been our fantastical destination. I watched her finger flex over the fabric, so evidently different from mine now. She lent a contrite smile, her angles calculated and finite. And I knew by the bend of her bones, she wouldn’t turn around this time.
“Stop doing that,” she demanded. “You’re making it harder to pull.”
I glanced at the board beneath me, its wheels hardly turning. All the while she jerked brashly at the cord. With a red bandana clutched tightly under my chin and my ribcage compressing until my heart leapt into my throat, I braced myself for violent words. But a long strange silence hung in the air and everything collapsed. A fearful hunger stirred within me as I waited for her to speak. She was a delicate balance of obedience and distance. To tip the scales was to jeopardize her affection, to commit to affliction. It wasn’t until she offered a small smile and tacit absolution that I dared breathe.
Five years before my sister moved out of one house and into another, we decided to run away together. Without hesitation, I followed her lead. Scrambling upon countertops, I reached for cabinet doors and plucked the remaining Oreos from a worn plastic bag, just as she had requested. We wrapped them in a small handkerchief, an unavoidable anxiety dwelling in our bones. She nodded, an unspoken indication that I had done good, and a grin brimmed my cheeks. She handed me a spool of fraying yellow rope, watching as I wrapped it around the axel of an aging skateboard. I turned towards her, awaiting any gesture of approval. She held my gaze with round grey eyes much like those of our mother, and my smile dwindled.
“Okay?” I suggested.
A hum hollowed on her lips and a comforted curve graced my mouth again.
“Where are we going?” I asked her, even as she’d told me countless times that day.
She recalled the spacious greenhouse behind her father’s rackety suburban home, just several intersections away. She promised we could stay there for days without anybody intruding our Neverland, a place that was ours alone, unyielding and imperishable. She promised we wouldn’t get caught and that even if we did, our mother couldn’t be angry with us because at least we were safe and home again. With a breath of relief, my doubts escaped me. I trusted her and not a single fear could weaken that faith. Naturally, I had to believe in her. It was important for me to believe in her; she knew me better than anybody could ever attempt to.
As I settled upon the board, my sister took the yellow line in hand. She looked at me expectantly as if our success rested solely on my shoulders. The responsibility was frightening, and still I embraced it. It was my opportunity to show her that I was strong and smart, to show her I could handle this. I could handle her.
“Ready,” I confirmed, anticipating the first tug at the rope.
She walked with intention, but even so her nature was inviting and affectionate. As we slowly wandered away from our home, she swore she had never felt such exhilaration. She spoke passionately of our goals and tempted me to speak. While I would never offer more than enthusiastic agreements, I felt a comfortable closeness with her. I grew to believe that I was meant to be there, seated upon that stiff skateboard, following in my sister’s footsteps. And more importantly, I was there because she wanted me to be.
But as our journey dragged on, our excitement dwindled. I watched she tired of pulling and I feared that I had become more of a burden than a friend or a sister. I twitched nervously, wondering if we would ever reach our destination. It was what I had waited for, the chance to be more than just an obnoxious copy cat who tiptoed behind her, and it was quickly disappearing before me. I scrambled for something that might make it better, but my words were knotted in my mouth and all I could salvage was doubt.
“We’re alright, aren’t we?” I prayed aloud, clasping my hands overtop one another.
She shrugged her shoulders, lifting them to her ears and allowing the fall again with ease. I mimicked her motions over and over again as she walked blindly ahead, but my gestures were mechanical and contrived. I realized then that, despite my efforts, I could never emulate her. With a gasp of frustration, the plank beneath me tipped and I was thrown to the cold cement. My breath hitched as she turned towards me. Again, I prepared myself for hurtful words, but instead she reached out her hand, lifting me from the ground. She picked up the skateboard, tucking it beneath her arms, and tipped her head towards home.
“Are you sure,” I pleaded, as if I could have changed her mind.
She just nodded and turned away from our Neverland. I had no choice but to follow, an obvious aching in my chest. We reached that familiar doorstep far sooner than I’d hoped, and its intimacy seemed callous upon return. My sister tosses the skateboard hastily inside our tumbledown shed, its hollow slopes having given way to petite fingertips. She told me to come inside because our grandmother had probably noticed we’d left and we didn’t wanted to get into any more trouble than we already were. I wondered if she’d noticed how easily she’d broken her promises, but she just pulled at my hand as she had done to the yellow line minutes before.
Five years later, when my sister moved out of one house and into another, she didn’t make any promises. I looked at her with unchanged adoration and naïve optimism. Somewhere within me still lingered an itching desire to live up to her name. The years of hostility and betrayal failed to hinder our affinity and my trust in her never faltered. Even as she tore through bedrooms, stuffing them into taut suitcases, I wanted to believe in her.
“Where are you going?” I asked. “Don’t leave,” is what I’d meant to say.
She stood at the doorstep, her hand clasped around a large blue backpack, and recalled those ramshackle greenhouses behind her father’s house that had once been our fantastical destination. I watched her finger flex over the fabric, so evidently different from mine now. She lent a contrite smile, her angles calculated and finite. And I knew by the bend of her bones, she wouldn’t turn around this time.