To my sister

You, my sister whom I pity when you think we don’t cherish you; You, above all, who suffer in silence, I keep you for sister.
Since when, sister, are you shut up in yourself? This is the question I asked myself the day you told me your distress. That day, my doubt became a certainty: your joyful, good, intelligent soul is trapped in your lack of confidence in you.

Yet, you had love as we had. But love is not everything.

It is not enough for the gardener to sing songs or even fondly caress his sprout for it to grow and embellish. No, if the gardener wants his sprout to become a beautiful tree, in addition to being a poet and a loving person, he must work: provide a plant support to guide the young sprout during the first years of its life, water every day differently depending on the season, be attentive to the slightest crumpled, parched leaf. Day after day, he has to take care of his young sprout without ever neglecting it.
Likewise, love is not everything for the child. Like the young sprout, the child needs a strong and reliable tutor to guide him in his first steps; a daily listening, a careful attention to detect the slightest sign of injury of the body as withering of the soul.

The wounds of a child's soul, if they cannot always be avoided, can be healed if treated quickly. But if we don’t see them or if we don’t want to see them, they widen as the years go by until there is not enough skin to be able to close the wound again.
The wounds of the soul of a child, if they have not been treated by his guardians, can be treated by the child become an adult. It's longer, more delicate, more painful. Because many years can be lost even before realizing that we are bruised, as we are used to going into life with our wound.
But it's possible, sister. If only you wanted to take my hand, if only you wanted to see the light, to cry about yourself and then finally laugh, and then finally walk in the sun. You could find the happy person locked inside you. I know it's possible and that's what I want for you, sister, because I love you and I want you happy. Many years have passed, yes, sister, but many years are yet to come and to be lived. Live them to the full, please!

But I also know one thing: it's up to you to reach out to me if you want me to take your hand, because I cannot take it by force.

And this is where I realize the helplessness of love: I cannot save you in spite of you.
And your wound makes me angry because I love you, sister, and because your wound becomes mine.

Gabrielle Dubois©

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