as a child, i used to have this crazy, irrational desire.
the one wish i would spend on every 11:11, every communion i swallowed, every birthday candle—was that i could have an older sister. growing up as the only girl, i felt very alone. the situation was exacerbated by the fact that my brothers had each other.
i would secretly weep about it sometimes, when i was 4-6. during my formative years, at 7-10, i glorified some of my friends who were a year or so older than me, letting my mind wander off to imagine a life in which i was not this lonely. by the time i gained literacy at 11, i started to concoct short stories on my family computer, taking a slab of words to mould a reality i could never have.
how amazing, i used to think, to have someone to listen to why-you-and-so-and-so-aren’t-friends-anymore, to teach you how to hold a mascara wand, or even just someone to share a skirt with.
ridiculous, right? there is no degree of delusion you could possibly associate with my endless coveting.
then i grew up and shelved this dream away, neatly wedged between logic and reason. what was i gonna do—manipulate time and fate?
as of late, though, little kelly’s hopes and dreams have resurfaced in my mind, like a corpse adrift in a lake.
the dry lump in my throat every time i think about it has started to grow again. yeah, yeah. i know it’s a juvenile thing to ask of the universe—for the impossible, the unattainable; the foolish and incontinent.
but this really means so much to me. it always has. really.