She is broken
What can I do?
So young yet, aged.
What ability she has is marred
by the abuse her body has taken.
Vitality and strength
should be her friend.
Yet black and blue marks
seem to hover around each fall.
Yet she preservers, she has to.
If she stopped she would cease.
Here I am a shadow in her corner.
I praise her for her courage.
I applaud her determination.
All the time I watch her eyes,
those eyes that reveal
the depth of her damage
and I weep in silence.
She is much like David
who slayed the giant,
yet her giant can not be slayed.
Is she chasing windmills
like Don Quixote only to have
her dreams fall to the wayside
like Quixote's visions.
Yet if faith is her cane,
I will buy her a dozen.
I am the oldest by five years,
many times in youth
we were always at odds.
She so determined and spoiled,
me the miniature mother
who filled the tub each night for her
until she was five, I hated it.
I long to draw a bath for her now to relax in,
she can't though,
her body never rest long enough.
She was there when I woke up in the hospital,
sleeping on uncomfortable chairs,
rising to make sure I was comfortable,
tending to me as if she were the mother
even though our mother was there as well.
Now in her time of need
I do what I can but it's not enough.
Life is cruel at times,
it's not prejudice with whom
it chooses to breakdown and make suffer.
Yet as a small flower
beaten down by raindrops
rises again to stand strong and beautiful in the sunshine,
so too does she
though a little worn and bent,
but it hurts to see this.
Yet for her I will smile
and hide the sadness
behind the blink of an eye
pretending the sun was much to bright this day.
I will worry behind closed doors
so she wont know.
I will cry over her broken body,
but I will always yes always encourage her
to keep trying and
to find pride in what she can do.
This sister of mine,
this little bird with a clipped wing,
who can not soar
but she can walk
and I will encourage her to.