My sister told me that while Mom was on the table and the doctors held me, I would cry, but no sound would come out. She told me that Mom held me and cried too. She said she cried for me. We both cried so much, we fell asleep. My sister held me too. She said I was strong. That I could fight storms and ride tornadoes without batting an eye. Amber. That's her name.
Three years passed. I was four. Amber and I would make forts and play in the snow. Winter was her favorite. We would climb giant mounds of snow and pretend like we were climbing mountains.
My fourth birthday was my favorite. Mom was at work and Amber and I played video games. Amber gave me a whiteboard and a marker.
She said "You can do great things, Kai." she looked into my eyes and I looked into hers.
She shoved the whiteboard into my hands. She told me I could write what I want to say. I think we both knew I wouldn't need it. She talks for me because she can read me. She knew what I wanted to say, but she knew she wouldn't be there forever.