Rare and Fragile

I was a rare and fragile flower once, I remembered.

I was once that little girl with one fat braid down the back of my spine. Even if I always wanted to be a class leader, I was born shy.

I was, once, that little girl that would go crazy over someone who mocked me even though just in my silence I would curse.

And for once, I was that someone who didn’t recall any pain nor sadness painted by my surroundings.

And then there was when it hits me; that snapped me back to my reality mode – when the hands clutched on mine squeezed as hard as the wind rushing through my body. Almost instantly I felt like as if I would crumble like sand crushed under one’s foot.

I feel helpless again.

But I must be strong in front of her when she is this weak.

She is my other half; my very own blood; of myself. Therefore when she is sick, I feel almost as if I am entirely responsible of what she’s feeling. She’s as fragile as I once was in my early days.

Even though I feel weak myself, I’d hug her and remain silent besides her. That’s the best thing I know I would love to have if I am sick myself. And in the silence of the moment, I thought: “Today is going to be a long day”.

I wanted her to be here to accompany me during the school hours, but I can’t stand looking at her feeling tortured during those hours. Better if she go home and rest so I don’t have to torture myself looking at her suffering.

I was a rare and fragile flower once that would be easily blown away by a gust of wind, I remembered. And today she is one too. –red