Carelessly, she strides down the escalator in her ballerina dress. She dances around and chases her little brother while people walk pass them with their big shopping bags. Her little body sways as if she is a weightless feather.
I sit, watching her in envy. I envy her freedom, her swift moves, her charisma, her free spirit, her ignorance. I envy her ignorance because her world is much more beautiful and pure than mine is, because she doesn’t live by rules or definitions. She is a small child who is unaware of the loneliness of my world. She doesn’t know how ugly everything can seem, how erroneous and scary it can be.
I uncross my legs as her little brother tries to pass by. I sit back and watch them scream out of excitement and I envy them.
The little ballerina and her brother continue their enjoyment while their grandmother tries to hold on to them. They leave and I picture my sister as a little girl, a little girl whose mommy temporarily left when she was eight. A little girl who was never a ballerina.