Everything was copacetic, truly impeccable. She was excelling academically with a vertical line of “A’s” all in a row on her quarterly report card. She had a plethora of friends. She would embrace me warmly in her loving arms and place a moist and loving kiss on my smooth cheek each and every night before I went to bed, while standing on that fluffy, tan carpet. She had joined a synchronized figure skating team, which glided across the ice as one, like a leaf tumbling and whistling in the wind. Her new skating team mates had become part of her new family, and she now had 11 more affectionate sisters. She had passed her driver’s license test on the first try, like a bird who naturally knew how to fly. She had achieved her goal of making honor roll for the 4th semester in a row and was taking two advanced placement classes in her junior year. She had been accepted into the school’s select acapella singing group.

She was truly astonishing, spectacular, and extraordinary.

She was on top of the world, flying and soaring high like a mother bird. She was following the right path, the wind always swept her away in the right direction. When she sang, the most alluring and captivating sound leaped from her mouth, as if the notes from the piano were being played. I was proud to call her my older sister.
She was perfect.

She was tall like a graceful yet calm giraffe. Her skin was a smooth as a gray bunny’s ear. She could be on the front cover of seventeen magazine. I looked up to her for advice and as an example for every aspect of my life.
But then a series of unfortunate events occurred-- everything changed.

Divorce. Switching. Two homes. One life.

She no longer kissed my cheek every night before I went to bed while standing on that fluffy, tan carpet. I missed her lips on my cheek each night. Those scars on her lips and the cuts on her wrist, they represented all of her pain and hardships through the epic battle of the divorce. When those lips touched my cheek or when the rough scars on her wrist rubbed against my back when she hugged me, I felt a sense of connection and wholeness, like she would finally talk to me about her problems instead of taking them out on her own visual representation.
She no longer maintained a close relationship with her friends, but lost them one by one, like droplets of water dripping from a ceiling. She was no longer the Mary Poppins that I had always expected her to be. She no longer enjoyed making angelic noises with her voice. She no longer was confident about her body nor her physical appearance at all. She no longer wanted to attend school nor go to figure skating practice. I thought that the beautiful mother bird was gone and had been whisked away by the breeze, forever. I no longer aspired to be the bird. I no longer chose to look up to her. I didn’t want her to influence my life anymore, nor take part in any part of it.

Emotions overwhelmed me.

I was confused. Why was she always crying? Why did she never smile? Why was she eating less? Was this my fault? How can I help her? What can I do? There were a numerous amount of questions running through my mind, like a lost baby bird trying to find its mother. Was I to help her?

I was afraid, like a hatchling all alone in her nest, waiting for the mother bird to return. At night, that is all I ever thought about. I couldn’t sleep, because instead of listening to my hushed and calming playlist that played from my phone, the only sound that seeped into my ears was the sharp, arduous wail for help. Do I get up and hand her a third box of tissues? Do I pretend like I don’t hear it? What should I do?

I was nervous, would this affect me as a person? Would I begin to have suicidal thoughts? Would my traumatic home life effect my school life also? Would my grades drop? Was I supposed to tell my friends? I decided to seek help myself. After about six hour long therapy sessions with a counselor, I was okay. I will never be healed completely, the scar will always be there. That sharp, arduous wail for help. How could I erase it from my mind?
I missed the angelic music that she produced. I missed hugging her every night before bed on that fluffy, tan carpet in the hall. I missed her moist kiss on my cheek every night before I went to sleep. I wanted my mother bird to return to me. I thought that those newly produced suicidal thoughts and that diagnosis of depression, OCD, and severe anxiety had destroyed her, and would they destroy me too?

All of those sleepless nights, she lay awake in her nest, with cool, salty tears streaming down her smooth face. A beautiful, angelic noise no longer escaped from her mouth, but it was a constant sharp, arduous wail for help. Gagging for air in between wails, her eyes creasing into a thin slip of nothingness. Her face continuously filled with the wet redness, like my gym shorts that I left on the clothes line to dry, in the rain. Her tears streamed down her face like rain flowing down my red umbrella on a cloudy, April, Monday morning.

Then winter came. It used to be my favorite time of the year. But now, her depression is heightened during that time of year. Her tears that drip down her face are like snow. As the snow falls onto the fluffy, tan carpet, the depression seeps. It seeps farther and farther into the ground, like ice frozen onto the grass. I could feel her tears seep into the cotton of my blue shirt. As the coolness of her tears seeped, I felt that she needed help… but how?
What was I to do? I was afraid, clueless. Was I supposed to be the one to embrace her in my loving arms on that fluffy, tan carpet? Was I supposed to be the mother bird and hand her tissues when she finished her second box? Was I supposed to rub her back with my hand, up and down, up and down? Yes, I tried all of these sympathetic and solicitous actions, but nothing helped. I was constantly kicked out by a louder wail, this time with my name roughly sewn into the scream. “No! Leave!” followed by a sharp, arduous wail, a gag for air, and more droplets from the ocean streaming down her face. “How can I help?” I said in a consoling and reassuring voice. “I don’t know! Just leave!” followed by a sharp, arduous wail, a gag for air, and what seemed like the last droplets from the ocean streaming down her face, beginning to soak the fluffy, tan carpet.

She was strong like a bird’s wing through the entire process. Through all of the pain and suffering of the damaged wing, eventually it healed. Recovering. After all of the therapist appointments and extra meeting times with her teachers, she was okay. But most of all, the plethora of salty splashes of the serene sea that crept down her smooth face like a cool droplet of rain flowing down the shiny fabric of her umbrella on a cloudy, April, Monday morning. Each tear that was shed on the fluffy tan carpet represents the flood of emotions that hit my sister daily: anger, sadness, frustration, confusion, want, and so many more.

Without these issues in both of our lives today, we would never be as close as we are currently. I would have never wanted to dry the rain off of her umbrella, I just wanted to catch the droplets as the plummeted. I would never have wanted to hug and kiss her every night on the fluffy, tan carpet in the hall; but I was afraid of her and just felt as though I were to only observe her like an animal at the zoo.

I no longer must be her mother bird who urges her on to make plans, reach out, and fly away, into the wild. We now chirp together, in unison, harmonizing each note. I no longer have to listen to her make those beautiful, angelic noises escape from her mouth alone. I no longer have to hug her each night and remind her how much I love her, but she actually knows it. She finally realized that she was able to overcome this. When she leaves the nest in just three short months, she will no longer have my shoulder to cry on. What will she do? Will the bird still be able to fly?

I know she will. Somehow, she will find a way to fly, away.