Archives for posts with tag: happy

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Finish is worn revealing gentler wood tones, on the arm of the wooden chair, suggesting years of use. The wear clearly from a forearm larger than that of the youthful current inhabitant. More curious than her headwear is the activity of the girl seated at the table with stain and design matching the chair. A delicate finger traces the location where varnish has faded from years of use, as if through touch she can gain understanding of the man who occupies this spot in early morning hours sipping black coffee. Does she gain the knowledge which he received from hours spent in this very location, folding papers containing events of the world. Among them the sports section which always holds his attention slightly longer.

On this day Brooke has chosen the brown bowler, her favorite choice of hat, though she generally seems slightly more partial to the faded black one. The one with felt worn on brims edge, much like the chairs arm, from years of repeated touch. It was a gift from grandfather, he had carried it on the long flight back from England, since it was sizes too small for him but a perfect fit for the little girl whom it strangely reminded him of that rainy day he spotted it through milky glass in the second hand store. This derby would start a collection of many including the brown one donned at the moment. There are the other hats and caps of all styles but by the sure number of days worn, all would agree that bowlers are the definite favorite of young observer.

Taking the seat next to younger sister causes her to look up casting a slight smile with always slightly blushed lips. Returning the smile, I resists the urge to glance away from gentle eyes. Brooke’s eyes hold secrets that have always for me been best observed in small doses. This day I take in all the emotion, love, warmth and passion that exudes from her. A slight tilt of head and scrunching of her noses suggests I should speak, asking me what I’m thinking.

“Brooke what are you doing?”, I ask my sister who I’d watched for some time seated in fathers chair, gently touching the arm worn by his use.

The yellow tablet is pulled close words are placed on it in looping perfect cursive. When thoughts are complete it is slid on the table in my direction. “Talking to Dad, I miss him.”

Six words simple and clear lead me to questions, rather than the answer I believed to be seeking. What do you mean miss him, I think to myself. After all father left for his days work less than two hours ago and as always he will be home before dinner is eaten together. Above the words written for me on the tablet is the evidence of the conversation Brooke and Dad had while he drank morning coffee, so why talking to him?

Brookelyn, now returned to herself and conversation with father, gently rubs the place where his arm hours before rested. Slowly standing in attempt to find my answers in her own fashion rather than mine, I close my eyes. Brooke’s face is soft beneath the gentle touch of my hand as I trace it’s curves, memorizing her form. Slightly damp lips kiss my palm and in my mind I hear the voice of an angel, “I love you too” are the words spoken.

-Brooke’s Sister

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Individual blades of grass sway in the breeze, turning the pasture behind our home into a sea. Brookelyn leads us away from the house, her pink kite trailing behind her. Since I can remember she has had an attraction to flight, or to things with a line. Of course, I too enjoy the brightly colored flying machines that Dad helped us build and Mom assisted us in decorating but Brooke loves them. She thinks they are magical, whereas I tend to take them for granted.

At the time I had no idea how special the home of my youth was. The small two story house much the same as all of our neighbors, with two bedrooms, a kitchen with attached dining space, a family room and not much more in structure. Where the rarity lies is in the hearts of the people who raised us girls in a way that time has left long ago. The more people I in counter in life, the clearer it is that things were unusual to say the least. From the origami toys we made, marbles we pitched, balls bounced in effort to capture jacks, strings pulled to send tops that were hand carved by father spinning across hard wood floors, and of course the homemade kites, our childhood toys were from generations passed.

Our parents could have purchased the newest toys, video games and items we played with when visiting friends if they had wished. Maybe it was influence from our Amish neighbors, or perhaps they wanted us to know an innocence many of our generation has not been granted. Regardless why, there we were making our way through grass kites floating behind us, waiting to be hoisted high into the sky by moving currents of air.

Brooke is the first to get her kite to take full flight and carry up into the heights of sky. Watching the bright pink creation rustle in the breeze, she keeps the line taunt to ensure flight. I watch a while, mostly my sisters smile and eyes before I begin lofting my own. Of course we encounter failures, tangled strings and at times even sorrows as our hours of hard work crash and crumble in the high grass, not on this day however.

We fly our kites without incident until interest fades, leaving us side by side on our backs staring up at moving clouds. Brooke listens as I tell the story the clouds paint, today it’s the typical princess in palace tale. As the story concludes with nights brave rescue, turning to younger sister I ask if she wished we had a video game consoul like our cousins do. Brooke turns to me, nose wrinkled and shakes her head no. Now smiling she signs, “I like building and flying kites and stories of princesses living in the clouds more.”

Now, after a year in a dorm room. Experiences that I never imagined, like traveling with teammates across the country, I understand what our parents gave us in our unusual, by today’s standards, home. In a way it was each other, time dreaming, imagining and playing together. Finishing this post I ask Brooke if she has a kite, and if we are too old to still fly them. Words are quickly scribbled on yellow pad, that is tossed my direction as she bounces up stairs.

“Yes., I made one not that long ago and that’s silly, you can’t get too old to fly kites! We are the perfect age!”

-Brooke’s Sister

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Paper when folded properly can become planes, swans or boats. Of course if one masters that art of folding pressing, refolding and bending it can be so much more. Those little boxes you can blow into to expand to a square, or the four sided question and answer machine we all played with in junior high, in order to find who we’d marry, where we’d live and how many kids would run through our house. Just as make believe as the lives we lived out by picking colors, numbers or whatever our peers chose to scribble on the folded finger puppet, was the other things we made.

In our house the origami items where tools to another world, taking us places far beyond the house, fields and streams that made up our reality. When made correctly a plane could fly us across the Atlantic ocean of our living room carpet to generally crash, though we always safely left the bent nosed wreckage, to see the beautiful Eiffel Tower that one of us had folded. There in our fancy hats, we would watch the swans swim on French ponds, in our boats, which strongly resembled the hats we wore on our heads. These wonderful folded adventure tools always had the elegant writing of Brooke on them, telling her part of our adventure I narrated. Whether trips to Rome, or into dangerous battles, some famous like Napoleons great defeat, or the ones with trolls and dragons, Brooke and I spent hours in our paper created worlds.

One day as I was lost in imagination folding and telling our adventure. Brooke tapped my leg to get my attention. Looking up from my work into the sparkling eyes of childhood companion and friend I was surprised to see her laughing. It’s always startling to me when she silently laughs and I’m clueless to the laugh and source of amusement. The feeling is a combination of awkwardly dancing to music you’ve never heard, being walked in on while changing and being the one in the group that really has no understanding of the joke being laughed at. Following Brookelyn’s slender arm leading to the hand with pointing finger, I too begin to laugh. There in the floor, our brown lab on her belly is stalking our paper creation. The work he approaches is a small boat carrying what was once the paper versions of ourselves but now just one remains. Leaving no doubt that one of us has fallen victim to his jowls already.

After some laughter, a note passed my way reads, “I saw him coming and being the smart one, swam for shore.”

Of course I know this isn’t true, our dog has ate one of our paper figures, but that’s not what gives away her false writing. Anyone who knows Brooke, is aware she isn’t the type to run from a battle, no she looks under the bed in those moments of fear, when a child is certain a monster resides there. Plus, I can’t say how I know but just like I’d never abandon her in danger, ever ounce of me is certain that she’d never leave me.

-Brooke’s Sister

The kitchen faucet, as often is the case in small homes, the kind filled with love but not expensive wares, drips. The rhythm of the water bouncing on the stainless sink always much like the beat one feels when casting a fly-line. That steady timing, subtle and ensuring the perfect looping cast; that’s always seemed to come more naturally for my sister than myself. Maybe the always present drip of the kitchen sink that stands out in all my memories of my youth, in some way engraved its way into the silence of my sisters life. Ensuring she would always have that necessary time to keep line just above water’s surface long enough to dry a fly and gentle enough to present it in a way pleasing to the most skittish and finicky of trout.

Snapping thoughts away from the present reminder that I am home, from college for the summer, Brookelyn slides a yellow tablet across the table. Looking at my baby sister, who appears to have grown a lot in the short months since I last saw her, I am aware before I read the words on the tablet of what they will say. Her eyes have told me what she has written. Reading Brooke’s eyes is a skill I’ve developed over the years. Our father in many cases, especially in the days when my sister was younger and less adequate at her preferred ways of communication, has called upon me to do just that; to understand her. This is not to say that I understand her anymore than any sibling understands another. It is more just an intensified observation of nonverbal communication. As to the deeper aspects of Brooke, things like hopes, dreams and desires, assuredly my insight is lacking at best.

From the slightly pink cheeks on the elegantly sculpted face of the prettier of the two Bayer daughters, my eyes make their way down a slender arm, to a gentle hand, that if turned palmed up would reveal calluses on finger tips from hours of compressing strings on a fretboard. There my attention is held for a while. On a hand much the same as my own, though a little smaller and in many ways more adept at the things hands are generally used for, and even more so at a few skills that only certain select people choose to master. Brooke’s nails are painted the color that is her favorite. That softest of blues, reserved for misty skies, babies clothes and on some occasions the prettiest of eyes. The type of eyes belonging to the very person’s hand being studied. Examined as if it may be needed sometime from now as a memory to serve as a point of happiness or contentment in life.

In handwriting as familare as my own, a blue gel pen, has scrolled letters that combined in current combination spell just what I’ve suspected. The looping clear beautiful writing seems to express so much more than if it had come from any source other than the very one it has. Taking a moment to locate the words somewhere in mind, to reply to a statement that seems possibly routine to others. Once again I am aware of the water faucet tapping out the seconds. Normally I tend to talk quite freely with friends and strangers alike, but at times it’s just not like that with Brooke. Seldom concerned about the deepest meaning of words chosen, taking for granted that what is said can be reworded if necessary or possibly that words spoken are such a common event that little consideration is needed in sharing them.

However, reading over the blue ink on yellow legal pad, I’m reminded that speaking can not be taken for granted. For a second I close my eyes desperately trying to imagine a voice. A voice of perfect pitch that would capture the attention of anyone within its range. The very type of voice that is surely more charming than the sirens that led many sailors to their doom on rocky shores. In my racing mind I search for the voice suitable for my angelic, mute little sister. When as always I’m filled with silence, my own voice fills the room.

“Brookelyn, I love you too and I am glad you are happy to have me home.”

-Brooke’s Sister