Secret Sister

By Navya Shukla

Secret Sister

By Third Year Kazrin Novus

I wish they had let you be a child before you had me…

I wish we did not have to grow up together. The title of Mother and Child never applied to us the way they applied to everyone else. Being mistaken for my Sister was a double edged sword because our youth is tied together. Can you raise me if you still need to grow?

At some point, you stopped holding my hand in the grocery store, and I started holding yours as I led you through my college campus. You tell me you are so low that nothing can be underneath you. My college professors are your age and you feel small. Has my age always been the marker of your immaturity? 

Everything is beside you looking up at figures that might as well be as mysterious as God. I hold your rough hands in my soft palms. There is still a youthfulness in your eyes. I push down the thought that in another life your hands would not be cracked from years of cleaning floors, bathrooms, hotels, or hospitals. Do you see your distilled dreams in my eyes? 

Mother, I am beside you. Your youth has made you my Sister, but it doesn’t deny me the title of your Child or your role as a Mother. I once looked up at you like we look up to God. She makes mistakes and false promises like you. She is a Mother like you. Mother/Sister, you are still a mystery but I put my faith in you. The earth spins until I am the age when you had me. How is it even possible?

It is my freshman year of college, where my biggest decision is if I should change my major to English. I am writing a cliche story where you don’t settle for the saying, “Things were different in my time.” I am writing a story where my boyfriend’s parents aren’t as old as your mom, my grandmother. I am writing until I have erased myself from the narrative so that you could grow up on your own time. How could you be happy in this reality?

I am selfish in my studies. Selfish in ways you never allowed yourself to be. The years you have over me make you want to beat sense into my actions. You told me when I was born, all of yourself was melted away until all that was left of you was me. Primogénita. As your firstborn takes from your being to become something else entirely, it carries the parts of you that you used to hold so dear. You can not bring yourself to dull my eyes. When did you plant your dreams alongside mine?

My heart blooms under the care of two pairs of hands. Your tears water the earth where I grow. Our roots take hold and twist together. I am finally grown. Mother/Sister, so are you.