I was told today that my sister and I might be the only good things that ever happened to her.
A rebel, an escape artist, an ex-patriot ... I was carried in the womb of a fighter. Her uprising carried her loops around the world's center. Scraped and scarred by the brush, her wounds only remain skin deep. She wakes each morning, walking slowly along the path in exploration and growing flowers from her fingertips.
How can this be? With an apple-sized heart and two tiny eyes, she still sparkles.