To The Artist

         Roughly a few years ago, when I was still stuck in the small bubble that teenagers seem to always find themselves in where the only things that matter in the world are boys and clothes  and hair, I watched them scream and hit my sister while me and my other sister tried to no avail to get to her, to stop them. Of course, this happened when I was younger too but that night...that night, something in my mind snapped and I'd started to see what exactly my sister had been through. When I was a child, I was too busy playing in my play room that I shared with my sister and that was filled to the brink with every toy you could think of, to notice. Too busy annoying my brothers, trying to boss them around as much as possible. Too busy being a child to notice. But no, I won't do that. I won't blame it on my childhood because despite my age, I'd always been a mature child and I'd always understood a little more than I should have. The truth is, although it pains me to admit it: I loved the attention. I felt that the world was putty in my hands. Suffice it to say: I was a spoiled brat.

         Now, I know I said I wouldn't make excuses in this story but I must say that, in my mind, I liked the attention but I was also being a kid. I can honestly say, I never wanted her to get hurt and I think that because I had never experienced their wrath in full until years later, I didn't  understand the weight of my actions sometimes. Regardless, my sister was not given the same opportunity to be a kid as I had been. On Christmas Day, when everyone else got race cars and SpongeBob toys and new footballs and love, she got one single present. Of course she was still grateful but I could see the disappointment and hurt no less. When us kids rough housed, there were many times when she, and she alone, would get blamed for whatever it was that had been done. If she showed even a bit of anger, although she was absolutely entitled to it, there was no hesitation in pulling out a belt or extension cord or hanger or their hand against her. Although I'd never seen him full out drunk, when my dad was slightly inebriated, it was her who he'd grab by the shirt nearly choking her and yelling in her face about some other argument that my parents had gotten in.

         Even I, although not intentional, was a cause of her pain in one way or another. When I got in an argument with her, no matter how petty, she'd undoubtedly get in trouble. There were other times too where she would get in trouble and I happened to be in the middle of it. I remember once when I was very young, my sister had come to eat with me and since I was still young and couldn't quite get the hang of it, she helped me. My mother burst through the door as if we were doing something wrong and dragged my sister out by her shirt, saying that she didn't want my sister near me anymore. I remember feeling so guilty that suddenly I just wasn't hungry anymore. Because all I could think about was the look on my sister's face when she was dragged her out: defeat. And then suddenly I felt like maybe it was my fault that we didn't have a relationship. That I had done something wrong. And I cried a lot after that. I remember many times,  where sometimes I thought they were purposefully making her a separate constituent to the rest of the family, but after that incident, I knew that they were. And that brings me to what I must apologize the most to her about.

          Although I was stuck in my own little perfect world as a child, I still had moments where I would daydream of better moments between us two. The same hands that tried to hug me and that were always ripped away from me, would be able to hold me as long as they wanted. It takes two people to have a relationship; however, I allowed their influence to ruin something that I could have had long ago. And even though we have a relationship right now, I feel that there will always be a rift between us and that is the greatest tragedy for me. Because I admire her so much. I remember one day I looked at her long, dark hair that had been consistently growing like weeds and her large almond eyes and saw a light from her. And I thought, how could anyone so beautiful ever be hurt? Shouldn't beautiful people be immune? But then I thought that her pain, her strength, her resilient spirit, that was what made her beautiful. That the most beautiful eyes I had seen could have cried so many tears was mind boggling to me but then it wasn't. Because who said that being beautiful was easy. No one ever became beautiful from having it easy in life. So, to my sister, the artist, I'm sorry. For the things that I was unable to admit to myself and to the things that I should have said sooner. For the relationship that we may never have and the burden of forgiveness which only you can grant me. I'm sorry.