Write about a pair of shoes
My sister and I met at a local restaurant. She is younger than me and her hopeful
enthusiasm for life mounts me like a dominant rabbit. I think I am a hopeful girl. People tell me I am a hopeful girl. But I say if you think I am hopeful, you
should meet my sister. I actually use
that phrase a lot: If you think I’m _______, you should meet my sister. There has always been this strange
competition between us, so much so that I could never seem to sort out my
identity without somehow using their lives as a gauge. I have two sisters. They are beautiful. We got assigned roles in our family very
early on. My middle sister is the artist
and the tough girl. My youngest sister
is the artist and the smart one. I am
the writer. I always liked to
write.
Over the years these labels were too confining but
for awhile I submitted to wearing these labels.
I remember a friend kept inviting me to a Zumba class and I was hesitant
to go because of how rhythmic I knew the classes were. When I finally relented and went to a class,
I surprised myself by actually being able to follow the steps and was pretty
good at moving rhythmically. It was the
beginning of my exploration of what other ‘labels’ I cold wear as part of my
identity.
At the restaurant, we talk about the things going on
in our lives. We chose to meet today
because it is her birthday. I look at
her as a big sister should. Proud of the
woman she is and no longer feeling I need to compete with her. I brought her a gift – a pair of shoes. Truth be told it was a pair of shoes I knew
she liked but it was also a pair of shoes I wish I could wear. I tried them on once. They were cream colored with a 2-inch heel,
strappy, complimentary to a dancer’s physique.
I tried them just like I tried on dancing. And while they both were lovely, they weren’t
mine. But at least I felt the invitation
o find out. I offer these shoes to my
sister, wrapped with joy, And love. And peace.