17

You're not my mother!

 Those five venom laced syllables cut my heart to the quick. My head drops down an almost unnoticeable fraction of an inch, long blond hair obscuring blue eyes wincing. I know this. I'm 17. 

     She only sees this side of me. The older womanesque figure she is forced to live with. I boss, I censure, I threaten, I love. You are so boring! You won't sneak out! I wish I had a fun sister. These exclamations reverberate in my soul. I know these facts, shoved in my face so pointedly. I don't like them either. But what can I do? I'm 17.

     I am in a strange position. Friend, confidant, listener, judger, mother-er, big sister. I don't know how to be these. I don't know how to keep up this difficult position. We have no mother. But we both need one. She is so young, she despises my guidance but needs it at the same time. We are different ages but the same kind of creature. I'm 17.

     Do I want this role? No. I never asked for this. I am young! I want to live my life, take chances, break the rules, experience everything I can before I must take my place as an Adult! But there is a young one watching. Whatever I do she does to the nth degree. If I drink, she drinks and smokes. If I lie, she lies, even better than I. You see my position. I'm 17.

      So I must rise above my desires, my thirst for rebellion. I've already tasted it. It didn't satisfy anyway. Big hazel eyes watched and learned from my foolishness. Used my actions and excuses for herself. Then disregarded what I wanted for her as it was hypocritical. She was right. I had to change. I'm 17.

     Now I walk a balance beam every day. Long fair arms outstretched, blue-eyed gaze set straight ahead, sometimes wavering and I falter but I keep moving. I am watched. I must rise to those heights. I must be an example. I feel I can't do this. But I must. I'm 17.

     I pray for the strength and maturity to be the example I need to be. She would never admit it but she pays attention to what I do, who I am. And applies it in her own way. I love her. She says she hates me. I know one day she will see why I did these things. Why I annoyed her. Why I seem like a fuddy duddy. A square. A wimp. But until then, I'm just, 17.