She and I were close in proximity, close in age. Sharing more things than not; sometimes by choice, sometimes not. She and I were close, also nearly very different. She had curls, tenderness, wanted things tidy; not I. Sometimes I thought our differences were unending, maybe so, but the more I grew the more I wanted to be like her.
Changing hormones have pressured my once straight hair into waves, like her. I caught a glance at my waved-hair self in the mirror and was surprised by my resemblance to her. I smiled. I'm changing, maturing to look more like her; now if only my arrogant, sporadic, messy self could look like her insides.
She is long suffering in the most beautiful sense, patient, loyal, kind, unassuming. She hides her heart, wraps herself not in how she feels but in what she knows. She is brave. She is wise. These are marks that I want to have, that I want to grow into being. That I can only pray to be like.
We shared toys, a birthday, bunk beds, some genes. Those things tied us, bound us, to one another. Uniquely different; ever combined.
