Beauty

When I was twelve and you were five, you came into my room one night just to ask me what beautiful looked like. There were other questions,  easier questions, that I answered before but the definition of beauty?  I couldn’t find the words to explain it right. So then I started listing things, hoping you’d get the drift. Our mother, our father, the neighbour next door, the woman on the television, your favourite doll. The sun looking smaller from our treetop house, where you hid almost every day so you didn’t have to play with the other boys. The colour of melted ice cream on our counter top, pink from mine, and blue from yours, mixing in the middle to create a secret galaxy. I wished I could’ve hidden you there the day you came home with a broken nose. Kids will be mean, kids will be cruel. But the worst of all was Dad’s cold shoulder when you couldn’t catch a ball. They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I told you beauty was in yours. Because even though the world hated your skirts and your strange little quirks, you took that pain and pushed it down. I knew Mum hated that you couldn’t fit in, and Dad just didn’t get why you did what you did. I wished all those years before the fights and lonely lunches, I had just told you back then, that even though you weren’t happy with the way you looked and even though you had blue ice cream when you always eyed mine, you were still beautiful every time you smiled.
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