Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
rosie june 28
as i'm making my way to the kitchen, a small, sticky hand plants itself onto the back of my leg. anyone else's normal response would be to yelp and immediately jump away from said hand, but i've dealt with this for too many years with my younger siblings. i peer down and smile at braxton, getting a small sense of deja vu. his blonde ear length hair is sticking out in different directions and my guess is, he just woke up from a nap. unlike his twin sister who needs to be carried almost all the time, braxton refuses to be picked up because he, and i quote, 'is not a baby.'
"what's up dude?" i ask, ruffling his hair but he tries to smack my hand away.
he attempts to brush his locks back into place, not that it was even neat to begin with but instead it's even messier than before. "don't touch me!"
i lift my hands up, defensively. "okay, i'm sorry." someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
"brin is so annoying."
"that's not a nice thing to say," i say in a soft tone. "she's your sister."
he rolls his dark blue eyes. "just cause she is my sister doesn't make her not annoying."
"what did she do to get on your nerves?"
"she always comes into my bed at night and tries to take all my blanket. she has her own bed and i wish she would just leave me alone."
i cover my mouth, hoping he doesn't see my large grin that's breaking out across my face. i miss having such juvenile problems in life.
i bend down until my knees are touching the hardwood floor, the top of his head just at my chin. "brinley is your twin sister, brax. you guys will always be closer than anyone else. she just gets scared at night sometimes and she loves and trusts you."
my words completely go over his head. i mean, what can i expect? he's only four years old. "she has her own bed." and those are his last words before he stomps upstairs.
"wow..." i mutter, continuing my original path to the kitchen. when i walk in, mom's in her usual position— in front of the stove. there's various pots and pans, each sizzling with a different food.
she doesn't wear her emotions easily so it's hard to tell if there's anything wrong with her. but lately, i've been noticing how tired she is becoming. the wrinkles and dark circles around her eyes are showing more than usual. with ten kids and a husband whose job keeps him away from home most of the time, i can only imagine how stressful it is.
"goodmorning." i say, leaning my head upon her shoulder.
"hi sweetie," she smiles but it's not enough to hide how worn out she must be. "you in the mood for an omelette? extra cheesy and bacon-y?"
i give her a look. "is that even a question?" i glance around the, surprisingly, empty room. "where's all the kids?"
"i lost track about an hour ago. but they better be here before this food is done."
