Saturday, June 28, approximately 5:30 am.

She’s my sister. My little sister.

I yell at her. I fight with her. I laugh at her, I tease her, I scold her. I love her.

“My stomach hurts.”

I hate it when she’s sick. She’s not faking. She’s gasping for breath and clutching her stomach and I’m scared out of my mind.

“Are you okay?”

It’s all I can think to say. I hate it when people ask me that – what I don’t always realize is that I probably ask her the question fifty times each day. I think I like it better when it’s not warranted.

“No.”

She’s not even awake. She’s talking about jumping into a pool, about water in her head. Her eyes don’t look right.

“Go wake Dad up!”

Why did it take me so long to think of that? I say it the instant it occurs to me, and I know I sound angry. I’m not. I’m panicked. I’m tired and she’s sick and I’m at a loss, and I’m panicked.

“Does she need to see a doctor or something?”

Sometimes I love still being young enough to ask adults all the questions. More often, I hate myself for expecting them to have all the answers.

“No, she’s fine. Relax!”

‘Fine.’ Sure. I’ll believe that when she stops shaking.

Leaning against the doorframe – I’ve never been able to fight off paranoia for very long – I stare at her until I’m sure she’s breathing. Then I keep staring. Just watching her breathe. My little sister.

Why is it I can only act like I care when I’m afraid for her? Afraid of losing her?

Please, God, let her be alright…

My little sister…

God Bless.