At the time,
It did not mean anything to me,
To have my dolls,
Dressed in miss-match clothes,
Beach blonde long locks,
Tied off in compass directions

Having the ability to finally walk,
Taking step by step,
Ruler width apart,
Looking up to my parents like a tower in the windy Chicago city,
They timber upon me as I glace at my Barbie doll

Double taking my sister across what looks like a driveway
Filled with obstacles,
Stumbling on a crunchy opaque thin goldfish,
Observing how my older sister gets so much attention

As I throw,
Not meaningfully,
My shiny plastic colorful Barbie,
Across the dull cemented block tile,
The plastic pink small nails dented the forehead of my sister.

As I caused transparent salty water drops drip,
From her wrinkled terrified brown eyes,
Seconds after, I hear, “Time out!”
From the two gentle towers that coasted over me.

The amount of guilt and clarification,
Went through my petite body,
Gazing into the lights that blinded me,
I turned and began to hug my sister,
Gently as I go on my tip-toes,
Tried to reach her scarred patch of red on her head.
My legs were too short as I gave her a friendly hug.