There are days when my sister and I could be twins I believe. And others when perhaps I feel mad thinking previously those thoughts. She is Narcissist peering longingly through Breken pond and I-- I am the Reflection swiveled tightly in summer breeze; an upside down picture to capture sticks and dead leaves.
In younger years I forced her, but a child, to intake odd amounts of dirt. I am as shameful of the act now as I was then; by that I mean hardly so. This child with gangly limbs and broken skips-- the protein did her well. It did better for her then the Christmas glass lodged in her throat. Better than the field ‘shrooms which made our brother choke-- though that wasn’t our fault entirely.
Now as time creeps upon us like sun to each morn at dawn, I see we’ve grown like the field ‘shrooms; like the dead leaves. Transformed into a reflection of ourselves--but if that is so. . . . Who am I to be?The reflection of the reflection peering omnisciently at her creator; her maker. Or perhaps there was never a pond. But a plate of glass holding captive two worlds.
Two kids to sit forever in grace, watching and mirroring the others’ place, with dirt whittled stomachs and rose colored faces-- burnt with the sun. Watching each other, morphing each other, into one.
Author's Note: "This piece was inspired by my sisters, as we are all very different from each other and often compete to be the best."