When she showed off her clean gown, I looked at my chocolate-moose-spread-supposedly white t-shirt and thought she was acting too old.
When we plotted and made brother sleep on the edge of the bed while we slept under the fan, cosy and comfortably, he thought he'd grow up someday and show off too.
When we decided to paint the room ourselves with sparkles, dad was petrified by our new found art and so he asked us to rub it off immediately. Perhaps he thought we were just kids!
I can't say it's been years since then. At least we don't fight for the same skirt anymore! But are we too old already?
That I couldn't realise we can't possibly share the same bed anymore?
That we can't have the midnight talks where we sat and laughed all night?
That she might just not be with us on the next holiday?
That we'll be going for dinner alone from now?
Not that I've been with her always. I haven't. She'd been off for studies for an year too but that didn't get the same feeling.
The other day, after dinner, she drove us back home. I felt strange thinking days later, we'll be dropping her back home.
