I used to take walks out in New jersey. My sister would always want to go exploring deep into the woods by the end of the road. She was much braver than I was. Or maybe she was pretending to be for me. This is my sister: always rushing to do the rollercoasters with the double upside down loop and the steepest of drops. On a certain day we went walking, she was able to get me to the edge of the forest, already an accomplishment for myself because I could no longer see grandmas house. She then gave me a look. In her eyes the reflection of a trembling girl trapped inside her own darkest fears. This is my sister: with a deep breath of the crisp fall air, she ran straight down the hill, arms spread wide, wind blowing in her face with a look of content that only freedom could supply. It looked as though she was flying. Like that beautiful bluebird I had seen on my grandmas cracked and wooden porch that one day last fall, and never again. Yet when I took my first step, one crunch of those crispy red and orange leaves under my feet that made me sink in rekindled all those fears. By now, my sister was already by the brook, fading more and more out of sight. I began to yell, my voice strained from our game of marco polo the day before. “Please come back!” “Stop!” and “That’s too far!” came as a series of cries from my 10 year old trembling mouth. As I looked up at the clear blue birdless sky, covered by what felt like a million auburn leaves, I thought to myself “is it worse to be afraid… or alone?”. That’s when I took off. Yet as I rushed down the hill, with this new breeze cooling my neck, I saw her coming back to get me. This is my sister: no matter how far she went, she always came back for me.
