Nine

A Story by FranBran

This is my first writing, and I can't seem to think about anything else, and I'm sorry if it's not written very well, but it's what is ruling my life at the moment.

Finally my path is clear. There are still brambles, and it is not on even ground, but I see it and I see where it leads, even if I do not yet see the end.

With you gone, the thorns are nine times sharper, and my balance is nine times worse. But, also, the light is that much brighter, the trees have that many more leaves and I feel the warmth of the sun and the cool breeze.

I barely even know who you are--were. You held me up, and I'm nine times closer to the ground.

A dead bird and a blossoming tree; I always thought it was pink.

You're eye has turned orange and lumpy, have you noticed? How can I speak to you, so calm and tempered?

You and your mints; you and your winks and band-aids in your wallet.

And you, drinking faux-tea with me in my white-lit room and smoking on the back porch as I twirl around, and you still walked and brushed your hair and spoke coherently.

My dear, with your head bleeding in the water, I can't comprehend--you're the mayor, the leader to awesome, with cigarettes, beer cans, and army pants.

I know you were lazy, but always welcome to hugs and sleeping in my bed, breathing deep.

Another, yet another, and he was a brave one; they kept you in a box and you were given to us by tattoo-covered arms, but you proved true and loyal and drew your last breath in your mother's arms.

My sister. My devotion.

Never did I know you, not really. Never did I get to hold you one last time, or watch you leave. Any good-byes were not Good-Bye.

My path is clear, and I cannot take the first step 'til you are nine ahead of me.