“You give me wings.” Indeed, parents truly are the wings beneath our (often) constantly “in-progress” pinions.
She’s everything I’m not. Both the good and the bad.
She has a hypersensitive nose and awkwardly-timed hot flashes throughout the night. She can smell absolutely anything, even if it’s faint, or miles and miles away. Frankly speaking, it’s quite vexing to live with someone so sentient of miasma and general smells – someone with a bloodhound’s instinct; the mildest of spicy cuisine scents bother her. The kitchen ventilator is her closest friend apart from drugstore lipsticks and Bollywood comedy shows on YouTube. She hates crudités and loves almonds and cashews, rather than walnuts and macadamia nuts. She loves omelettes cooked in vegetable or sunflower oil, and soft-boiled eggs freshly prepared ; I like scrambled eggs dispersed in a diaspora across the nonstick pan – cooked in coconut oil or GMO-free cooking spray, prepared with milk or water to add fluff and puff – and hard-boiled eggs that have been refrigerated for at least three hours or more.
She’s an individual who turned claustrophobic gradually, but almost overnight in terms of intensity of behavior. She loathes closed doors and windows, even if that means uninvited guests and arachnids. She inherited her mother’s
But she’s also far more persistent than I ever will be. She’s hopeful, optimistic and heavily realistic. She’s pragmatic and beautifully practical. She’s reliable. She’s street-smart. She possesses all the common sense I lack.
She shouts, screams and shrieks when she’s angry and breaks under pressure, losing any possible filter speech can render. She begins using racialized tones, armed with acrimony, and bereft of any equanimity. I, on the other hand, remain relatively composed when the pressure cooker starts to burn and attempt to keep my voice monotone since it’s already so high-pitched. It convinces people that I’m okay, especially when I’m on the verge of mental foundering.
She cannot let go of opportunities, responsibilities, and tasks; she just cannot let go. She regrets, regrets and regrets.
I’m a Stoic in such matters. I’m used to letting go, and I can let go, even when I shouldn’t; I let go of hope whenever there’s a chance, and anything that stops giving me what I wanted from it. I don’t wait; time doesn’t, so why should I?
I’m numb to letting go. Let the pieces collapse where they may.
Her laughter is my reason for existence and her smile makes every breath more worthwhile. Her tears – of melancholia, not joy – are my kryptonite. Her dilapidation is my ultimate weakness.
She adores busyness and productivity; lack of work — and the inevitable stage of future retirement — makes her listless and lethargic. Any absence of productivity kills her from the inside out.
I am the exact opposite. I love boredom — there are several ways to solve it that don’t involve work or excessive neuron usage. It makes me look like a lazy coward, a good-for-nothing human being, an individual who deserves to be the laughing stock of the modern generation of online course-taking, self-coding, 24/7 blogging/video blogging/researching-Millennials. It makes me look weak. But I love leisure — no matter how long it is. It’s rejuvenating for work and helps me prevent burnouts, in almost all aspects of life.
And yet, her hope drives me forward. It gives me more energy than any number of Red Bull beverage cans ever can (no pun intended). It refreshes me entirely – from my brunette head to my taciturn toes.
I cannot understand her handwriting — ever. It’s as if a trail of ants have died upon themselves. It’s a mystery to me how her patients ever handled the incredible brain drain it must have taken to comprehend her medical prescriptions; there are a million drugs and creams out there and difficult-to-decode handwriting only makes the world of ointment galore more galore-ious. It’s cryptically dazzling.
My biological father has handwriting resembling that of The Declaration of Independence’s original manuscript. It’s cursive, and aesthetically speaking, reads like a secret Roman love letter and like a Jane Austen novel. How did he manage to write something using a twenty-first century gel pen and still make it look like he fountain pen-ink?
It’s a lovely rhetorical question; please don’t wonder why.
She is more progressive, more liberal, more forward-thinking and more open-minded than many students of the same age as me (she’s fallen under the category of “high school student,” “undergraduate student”, “graduate student”, “medical school student” and “IELTS candidate/passed with flying colors”). She’s the best teacher, while I wish I could ever say, “the student has surpassed the master,” but alas, I believe the master is insurmountable. She is, indeed.
She has an unassailable ego that I fear I may have inherited. She’s devilishly petite while I am just “standard” or average (5 feet 4 inches).
She gives me energy caffeine-free, java-free, sugar-free, gluten-free, calorie-free, trans fat-free, oil-free, and Red Bull-free. She proffers me energy just by breathing. She makes everything better — she relieves my stress and displaces it with so much positive energy that my nail and hair growth — previously stagnated — has commenced once more!
She’s worth more than any number of nights of sleep or bottles of Gatorade; she instills and inculcates all the energy I need right within my sister soul, and more – all while keeping in tune with the Law of Conservation of Energy. The total energy in my isolated collegiette system remains constant and conserved over time – all through her.
This article serves as a hearty means of “kudos!” to her very existence. She brings a whole new meaning to the phrase, “A Collegiette’s Guide to LifeTM”.
With her, I never need a guide; she’s my compass. My superhero. My everything in this life, and every life.
Because of her, I don’t need to think about how many years I have left in my life or how best I should improve them. Those statements are already established – and ongoing – goals. I only need to pay attention to her; she’s the one who adds life to my years, and that’s what matters far more than the number of years I will experience in my life.
Quality over quantity, folks.
Her over anyone, anything and everyone, everything.
Anytime.
All the time.
Every time.