To the Siblings.

Dear little girl,
I hope you get through your teenage years with aplomb. I hope the road is bumpy enough so you’ll learn, but not so bumpy that you get bitter—or broken. And I hope that you will never lose that sweetness that I still see in your eyes sometimes.

You are the most beautiful one in our family, I think, and your life is a star within you, as Rilke wrote. I wish you a life that travels far across the heavens, spreading pixie dust on all you pass, illuminating the world, and shining in the eyes of the people who look upon you.

And most importantly, don’t follow my mistakes. You are beginning to, partially, and I really, terribly hope you stay away from the fullness of the mistake.

You are growing up to be a gorgeous girl full of words and personality, and you’ll make a lot of people jealous…but don’t worry. I got your back.

Word,
Irene.

Dear once-little brother,
Oh, what to say. You’re crazy, sometimes, but I think that you are saner than most people I know. Your mind is bent around things mechanical, and the cogs and gears that turn inside your mind constantly astound me. People often don’t know what to make of you, as they felt toward all geniuses in their day, but that doesn’t stop you from searching out total individuality to the extreme.

You’re great…but you are also terrible at times. I’m beginning to avoid talking to you because of your increasingly secular outlook on life. It’s depressing to me, because I remember how bright-eyed you used to be, and the profound thoughts in your head were as captivating as the stars that we would walk beneath.

But now, I half know you, and I half don’t. Thinking about all I want to say to you drains my energy, and if I say it, will you even listen? or will you blow it off as you do all remotely moral advice, and continue to walk your own way?

I wonder what your life will be. It stretches out before you, a crooked highway that is blank and bare—put up the signs as you go by. I think, though, that your low speed level is in your favor.
Just—remember who is supposed to be at the steering wheel, I guess.

Happy trails,
Irene.

Dear littlest one,
You are the sunshine of my life, your eyes the blue skies. When you say my name in your baby slur, my heart melts. I feel like I am so grown-up carrying you around the complex, and yet you give me the strongest reminder of my youth that I have.

I hate that growing up means moving away from you, not watching you grow up, and potentially losing the chance to be the ever-present protective big sister. But I am so planning on spoiling you with my hard-earned cash.

You are smart, hilarious, and full of personality—and not even two years old. Oh, how I love watching you leap forward every day, and how I dread the passing of time.

But it’s all good. You are precious at every period of your life, and I love you like whoa.

Yours forever,
Irene.