Fade

     It's funny how too much of anything suddenly isn't special anymore. Your favorite song plays over and over on the radio for three months, and it's no longer your favorite song anymore. You say you'd be happy to be stranded on a deserted island with just a TV and the complete DVD box set of your favorite show, but after a few years of reruns, the show's not as wonderful as it used to be.
     The same thing happened the other night. I heard you sobbing in the room next door, Dad trying to understand the problem. "It hurts! I don't know what's wrong, it just hurts!!" I heard you wail. And my reaction? I didn't jump up and rush to you, I didn't begin to panic. Instead, I rolled my eyes, and kept working on homework. It sounds cruel and heartless. But how many nights were like this? You sobbing about something, whether it be one of your many medical ailments--the time you broke your rib, your bout of pneumonia, your recently acquired cist, or one of your silly emotional "catastrohpes"--another boyfriend dumping you, a mean comment at school, or another clash with Mom. Events so frequent over the last two years that such sobbing doesn't even pain my ears anymore.
     You went to the emergency room. Your eyes had for some reason dried out and the friction from your dry eyelids scraped your lens, or something of that nature. At any rate, you got some eyedrops and were fine. Nothing major. Just another one of those silly things that cost a whole lot of stress and amount to nothing.
     I wanted to be upset when I heard you cry. I wanted to feel sympathy, but I'm only human, baby sister. I only have so much compassion, so much worry to give out to you. When that's gone, there's not much left. Please don't let me grow cold. Don't let my emotions fade. Hold your head up high, sometimes. Smile sometimes. Give me a chance to refill. Because even if I run out of worry, or sympathy, or compassion, I will never run out of love for you.