“Brody!” She yells. Her voice edging and forming and sharpie-line bordering her big sister-ness.
Their small feet pound cement.
Two sets of sneakers hurrying home after a day filled with hurries and MustBeOnTimes and schedules and to do lists.
We’re walking together but separate, in the way that families do after a day that’s been a titch too busy.
Filled to the brim, ready for some empty.
Her straight edged voice washes over him, and he doesn’t stop.
Instead, he soft-foots onto the grass, stomping through, marking his little boy path.
She sighs her frustrations my way as her lips wrap around his name once more.
But when she spots the treasures he’s wrapped his small fingers around, she pauses.
In fact, for a single eyelash flutter, we all pause.
She follows him onto the grass, her Big Sister mission forgotten.
I stay back, push aside the pull of Hurry and the tug of Leading.
He hands her a set of wishing flowers. An irresistible bouquet of little boy goodness.
Her slender, pink tipped fingers firm around his pudgy, dirt-stained ones.
They lean in close, their noses touching, their eyelashes matching, and blow wishes each other’s way.
(I hope they always find a way to puzzle piece their wishes. Good things become better just like this.)
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