treatswords

Stubborn.

I can see it in her eyes when she’s made up her mind.

They are firm, almost terrifying.

She wins again and it infuriates me and yet, I am proud of her.

She’s become so independent, sometimes her lack of desire for connection or love for that matter, surprises me.

But I never forget when I used to write her notes.

“I’ll be home soon, promise. Soon you’ll be big enough to come with us.”

Climbing onto my bike, hearing the front door swing open.

Her tiny frame clothed in a red dress, bare feet, rocks digging into her heals.

“Wait, Cali, Wait!” She’d yell. I would keep pedaling, peeking behind.

Her blonde curls in a static swirl, white waves around her face.

Her large emerald eyes, drawing me towards her.

They have a gravitational pull about them. She’s the moon and I am her tide.

Mom chasing after her, “Emily Rose, get back inside!”

Wet cheeks, stomping feet, back to the kitchen linoleum she goes.

She’d wait for me, though she’d never admit it.

Time seemed to carry into weeks, months, years.

I’d always come home, but she’d never let me forget I left.

Running up the green carpeted stairs, standing by her door.

The knob locked; I’d knock.

“Go. Away.”

And I always did, but never too far.

Kneeling by her door, listening to her crayons scratch paper.