Chapter 7
When I was four years old, about the time any other kid would be bragging about being four and a half, I was told by my parents that my mother was pregnant, I knew what this was because my cat had already had two litters and my parents were always honest with me. I was, unlike many of my friends who had siblings, excited.
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I remember wis.h.i.+ng for a little boy, I planned on teaching him how to fight, make model cars, draw, and how to count. I knew we were going to be good friends. To be honest I expected him to come out a fully functional three year old boy because that was as far back as I could remember.
When my mother told me it was going to be a beautiful little girl, well the dreams of that little boy did not mater, and I immediately started planning her beauty pageants and dance recitals she was going to be everything that was girly in her older sister. I helped my parents paint my little room pink, a color I did not care for, and I gave up some of my favorite toys to decorate her side of the room. I was going to be the best big sister on earth; I had taken care of baby dolls so a living little girl was not going to be anything new.
Well the date neared and we went to the hospital, I do not remember much of the next few days, they blurred together, we stayed at the hotel in the hospital, mom was very ill and so was my baby, my sister, my Jayd. I saw her for the first time and she was as dark as my dad with his thick black hair, but she had tubes coming out of her mouth and sides, she had IV's in her little arms and legs. I did not understand but
I knew what death was, that year I had seen a kitten crushed in a wall and another one of my cats was killed by a stray. I just did not understand how something so beautiful, so wonderful, so perfect could be dying like a kitten who climbed into a car before it was started. I understood a great deal but that fact I could not wrap my mind around.
It was March third, the first time anyone put that baby in my arms, which was the first time I ever truly felt happiness. She was small; my little arms were able to support her without struggle. Her heartbeat was slow and steady; I could feel it on the palm of my hand. She did not have tubes or IV's anymore. The second she was in my arms everyone else was gone, I was alone with my own angel in a long white hallway waiting for G.o.d to say it is time. I held her tightly willing time to slow to her heartbeat.
At four years old I held my beautiful baby sister until her little heart stopped beating. I will forever cherish this single moment in time because I had, even if it was for a few seconds, a little angel. I had someone who, even though she could never understand it, made my life better. She has been my wall to lean on, my little shove to get better, and to be better.
Poem: Beautiful Voices
There is a song for every feeling.
A beat for every heartache.
Every man, woman, and child
Reminds me of a song.
A song from any genera.
A song for all.
Then again music is everywhere.
Maybe I am jealous,
I am no musician.
Music couldn't come from this pen.
The ink doesn't hold the notes.
Poetry and lyrics differ more than
Red from blue.
Similar in the way it is written
Most poems can be turned into lyrics
As most lyrics can be poems.
Not all poems are meant to be sung.
Not all lyrics are meant to be read.
I love music,
The art behind it is wondrous.
My poems though are not songs
Sung by beautiful voices.
They are meant to be read.
A meaning taken only by
The ones who have been there.
Where is there though?
See it.
What is it you see as you read?
Lived it.
Every experience makes a different idea.
And suffered all that could be suffered,
Would be suffered,
or even has never suffered at all.
A definite loss with meaning.
Only understood
By those around,
But never understood.
Music is the same.
Music reminds,
Music forgets,
and Music is the reason to breath.
It is the reason to cry.
A reason to smile.
A reason to just go on.
All can understand music.
All can feel something from a sound.
A soft hum can make us smile,
Even when death is on our tongue.
So, sing and read and go on.
That is all that is good anymore.
The joy of writing is only here
When it is shared
With all who enjoy it.
Beautiful voices read.