“All my life, I've been waiting for diversity.”-Max Von Sydow
In the morning, the first sister awoke at six o' three, because that was the time she always did. She sat up in bed, folded her hair down with her right hand, lifted the left corner of her quilt, and stepped with both feet to floor.
Her nightgown was always pale pink. Her socks were always white, with a ribbon at the ankle. Every morning, at exactly the same minute, of exactly the same hour, she would open her window, and lift her rosy cheeks to the same sun she awoke to a thousand mornings past. She would stand in the morning breeze for precisely nine seconds.
She would comb her hair, change her clothes, and the same day would begin again.
At seven o' four, of that same morning, the second sister opened her eyes.
She stared at the ceiling. She hid her head beneath her pillow.
Finally, she would stand, and begin her day with a cup of coffee, or maybe a piece of toast. Some mornings, she would simply remain in the safety of her bed. Sometimes, she'd wake up and don a mask and cape, to make herself feel invincible.
On this morning, after memorizing the scents of her bedsheets, the first sister spoke to her.
“You woke up an hour later than usual today.” she said in the sweet, innocent tone that she had beheld forever.
And the second sister rolled out of bed, and began applying her mask.
In a deeper tone than what once was, she bid the first a good morning.
* * *
On the next morning, the second sister awoke at eight o' five. She stretched. She went to her closet, and began to dress herself for the day ahead.
The first sister had been awake for two hours, and two minutes now, living the same day.
The phone rang, and the second sister would answer it. She would giggle, nervously adding more paints to her dripping mask, teasing and joking with the voice on the other end. And the first sister did not understand the conversation. The second was using words the first did not know. She was acting in a way that the first could not comprehend.
The second sister would tell her goodbye, and leave their house, to see the caller in person. And the first sister would frown, and continue her day.
She would play with her dolls, and remember when her sister was almost identical to her, in looks and in manner. They would both wake at the same time. They would share a breakfast of 147 cheerios, in a white bowl with a cup and three quarters of skim milk. They would smile, don the same dress, the same pink shoes. They'd play the same games, and use the same words.
And the first sister remembered this time, and she missed it terribly. She missed the sister that was not the same anymore.
The second sister was taller now. Her hair was longer. Her shoes had heels. Her clothes were tighter. She wore the mask. The first sister prayed every night at eight o' seven, that her sister would take that mask off. But she never did.
* * *
It was a brisk, bleary morning. Nine o' eight. The two sisters walked through the wood they had once played in together, before the second sister grew her hair out.
The first sister felt as though that time were only seconds ago. The second sister had nearly forgotten them.
They used to play games in the tree house at the end of the dirt path. The first sister was always the princess, content with her frivolous life, endlessly coming her hair in front of the window, longing for her prince.
The second sister would be the stepmother, who was sometimes very kind, and sometimes rather cruel. She would never do the same things twice. She would move very fast, the second sister. And the first would have to struggle to keep up with her.
On this morning, the first sister wore the same, simple pink frock, cut at the knees, with long white socks, adorned with ribbon, and flat white shoes. Her hair was in the same, perfect two braids.
The second sister wore very tight blue jeans, with a red sweater that hung slightly too low for the first sisters preference. Her hair was down, and flowing. Her mask was on, her heels were high. She was much taller now. She walked very fast, her arms folded in front of her as she stared at the morning sun hanging above their heads.
The first sister spoke.
“I like to think that no matter where we are, we will always look at the same sun.”
The second sister said nothing, for she disagreed. Her sister saw a bigger sun, that made her feel small. But this sister's sun had gotten much smaller over the years. Much dimmer.
They walked beneath their separate glowing stars, crushing autumn leaves beneath their feet.
“We need to talk.” the second sister told the first. And they did.
“I'm growing up now.” said the second.
“You can't. You're not ready.”
“I am, sissy. I really am. It's time.”
But the first sister simply shook her head. “You can't leave me. You can't forget about me.”
But the second sister already had, so it seemed. She walked right past the tree house, leaving her sister to stand at the latter alone, tangled in a net of memories that only she remembered.
“It's time. Thanks for everything.” And the second sister began walking again.
“No, come back! We've never walked past the tree house before! You'll get lost!” The first sister tried to run for her, but found that she was rooted to the spot. Her feet, clad in age old pink slippers, would not let her go any farther.
“Sissy, wait! Wait for me!” But her sister was so far ahead now. She tilted her head behind her shoulder, and smiled at her.
“I won't forget you.” she said simply, and then she faded away, and her sister could not see her anymore.
The first began to cry. She collapsed where she stood, burying her young head in the folds of her little pink dress, trying to understand.
She stood, and began to climb the latter that would lead her to the tree house of every yesterday ever hatched, where everything would feel okay again.
She patted her braids back into place, looking around her. On the walls were framed pictures of two girls, who looked very much alike. One was small, with round cheeks, and a pink dress. The other was older, taller, cleverer, and she wore different things in every picture. Her hair was never quite the same, her expressions would change from frame to frame.
The first sister grew dizzy, for she did not understand. She began to cry, stomping her feet. But no one could hear her.
And then, the first sister began to fade away. Her features grew pale, until nearly translucent. And she crossed her fingers, something her sister had taught her to do many years ago when she wanted something desperately to happen, and she disappeared.
The first sister was never seen again.
The second sister kept changing.
And because you've all heard this story countless times before, you understand that the second sister lied when she said that she would not forget the first.
The tree house grew old, and the second sister could scarcely remember it now. Photographs and memories, her innocence, faded away inside, wearing a small pink dress.
But these things weren't important anymore.
The years spun on, the hours changed every day. The mask grew thicker.
She'd forgotten herself, left her in the wood.
But, alas, you've all heard this story.
You understand, I assume, that the first sister still lives out there somewhere. You understand that she should never be forgotten, but that, in life, the best of us fade.
And so the second sister, who's name was Diversity, walked on.
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