Ride or Ride

My brother gave me the scar on my left wrist. That was nowhere near his fault. I can't recall what the fight had been about, but it ended with a wrestle with me claiming I could beat him up. The war of superiority. We heard the crash of the ceramic plates- the ones we refused to pack up after lunch- onto the hard tiled floor, as we were locked in on each other, trying to inflict injury on the barest visible flesh on the other contender. I felt the sting of pain, and it was when I started screaming we realized there was blood all over the floor. I got stitches in some hours later. We had a shouting battle a couple of years ago though. There wasn't a turning point after that fight.

He bought me a bracelet for my last birthday. He regrets the wrist incidence, even if he never said it. I've never seen him so scared all my life. Even worse, I'd never seen concern so evident on our parents face, but dad is a jolly good man. I told him this evening to practice the walk down the aisle with me. It's a long shot for me, finding a soulmate, but I really want to make him proud of my choice, as I am proud of his.

On random Saturdays, when my mom sends me home-made cookies- the recipe of which I never perfected learning- my heart leaps and I tell everyone that cares to hear, just how much I love her. She gets it. She gets everything. She always does. 

Sitting on the front porch and listening to my parents argue about music from the eighties. Mom always wins this one. She goes on and on about Tracy Chapman, and even if my dad was a sucker for KWAM 1, and still is, he lets her win, sticking his tongue out as she turns her back at him. "I saw that," she calls from inside.

She sees everything.

QJ.

Picture credit: Lexonart (You should really check him out on Instagram)