November 8, 2008
Sitting at the top of the stairs catching strains of conversation and Iím thirteen years old again listening to an argument Iím not supposed to hear. Words forced out through tears and a fluttering chest. Sheís tiny, like a delicate bird abandoned by itís mother. Eyes that used to sparkle with laughter now just plead for some rest or an answer, or for someone to hold her and tell her everything will be okay. And Iím crying again because itís falling apart and Iím still thirteen years old and I canít help her. Iím not sure anyone can this time.