Stand with your Sisters (30dpc #4)

It was as if I were 6-years-old
and watching another 4-year-old
girl, probably playing hopscotch,
fall on her knees at recess,
get up with tiny rocks stuck in her wrists
and shins and say that she
learned something. It was as if,
at that moment, in her pip-squeaking
4-year-old nonsense, she told me
“Falling ain’t so bad,” and I glared.
As if my 2 years — no two and a half(!) —
years of seniority couldn’t have taught
me anything about wisdom in the fall.
As if I had never seen the hopscotch
squares in my entire life.
I would have made a scene,
pointing at the dimples in my knees
said “Look! I didn’t need you to tell me”
as if I expected her to bow at my
more valid testimony she had the
audacity to neglect in her moment
of silly toddler epiphany.
It would be as if swinging with a grimace
make more sense than dusting those painful
pebbles out of her skin and saying “Yep,
tripping stinks, but you’re right;
you’re good, ya spaz,”
before grabbing her hand and running
to deftly jump chalk lines together.