“Brooke, look at me!” I exclaim, a hint of a lisp on my voice due to my two missing front teeth. My six year old legs pump my swing back and forth, causing the whole swing set to shake.

My seven year old sister pokes her head out the window of the wooden playhouse.

“Cool,” she says, voice disinterested.

I watch as she comes out of the playhouse holding a tray of plastic teacups. Her light blonde hair is swept up into a side ponytail with a blue ribbon that matches her dress.

One pigtail of my long, wavy black hair flies into my face and I blow it out of the way.

“Brooke, I’m gonna jump!” I exclaim giddily, still pumping back and forth, high into the air.

“No, you’re not,” Brooke says back, dusting pine needles off of the miniature picnic table. The noise of the creaking swing set is loud in my ears and I hear the clinking noise of Brooke toying with the teacups.

“I am too! And when I jump, I’m gonna fly like a birdie!” I tell her, wanting to prove her wrong.

Brooke looks at me like she's annoyed and puts her hands on her hips.

“No, you’re not! What are you, stupid?”

Right after she says that, I accidentally let go of the chains of the swing and I rocket off the seat. I really feel like a bird, flying through the air with my hair blown back behind my head. Time feels like it’s going in slow motion and I could sense Brooke watching me with amazement.

Then I have a mouthful of grass and pain in my arm. Tears spring to my eyes and I start to bawl.

“See? I told you so!” Brooke yells, running towards the house and knocking on the glass sliding door.

I lie there in the dirty brown grass, salty tears falling down my cheeks and my arm wrapped against my chest. I keep wailing loudly and hear the crunch of Brooke and my mom running towards me on the grass.

“Sweetie, are you okay? What hurts?” my mother exclaims, helping me stand up and then crouching to be at my level.

“My-hic-arm-hic-hurts,” I cry, burying my face in her shoulder.

“Brookie, go get the car keys, they’re on the counter,” she tells my sister. She picks me up and carries me to the car.

That night I got a lime green cast on my arm. Brooke signed it in capital, scrawled letters.

That’s one of my earliest memories.