When He Is Old Enough To Remember Being Little

If you watch closely, you will see their echo.

Just beyond the gate without a latch, where shadows dance upon the mossy floor. A kaleidoscope of color and sound, gold-tinged mirth, ruby laughter, seafoam smiles.

The lantern holds their story close, infusing it into the vines that coil around its base. Ferns press up against its glass, curling against the memories trapped within.

Ivy crowns their brows, fanning out from messy hair to settle against the tips of their ears.

A swing rocks in the wind, ropes creaking with every pass it makes over firefly-filled grasses.

Everything stills to watch them dance. The boy’s chubby hand set in hers, eyes full of wonder at the way the butterflies flutter over her arms. Legs stumbling, careful not to crush her toes. Her gaze set on the stars above, counting each like a wish she gets to keep, a dream not yet too far out of reach.

His arm is too short to twirl her. No matter, she will twirl him instead.

When he grows too tired, she lifts him up, settles his feet atop her boots. They dance together as the wind threads through their linked arms, grin when the sky begins to shower them with tiny, emerald droplets. They spin underneath the stars, feel the rain drip from their ivy crowns. His nose is red from the cold, but she won’t say a word about it.

He looks at her like she is his best friend. Like the world starts and stops with her smile. She knows that one day, that will change. He will grow up, find someone else to look at that way. His round cheeks will become lean, his little legs will grow strong, until she can no longer carry him atop her boots. She must savor this moment, when she is his world. When he is still little enough to dance with, little enough to allow her to hold his hand when they walk, little enough to have a spark in his eyes every time she brings him on her adventures.

Little enough that being his sister is something he cherishes.

She does not say a word when the rain has fully soaked their clothes. Not a word when her fingers grow numb, and her legs begin to tire. Not a word when her eyes become heavy. As long as he holds onto her, full of smiles, she will dance. As long as his laughter blankets their hidden grove, she will come back to it each night, pour out jars of fireflies, weave together new crowns, all so she might see how much it delights him.

All so that one day, when he is old enough to remember what it was to be little, he will remember the moments they danced, just beyond the gate without a latch.