*
It is Summer. I am thirteen years old, and Bree is six, and we skip hand in hand through the lively streets of the Seaport. They are jam-packed with life, everyone out and about, and Bree and I run down the cobblestone streets, laughing at all the funny people.
Bree plays a sort of hopscotch game on the cracks, half hopping and half-skipping every few steps, and I try to follow in her path. She laughs hysterically at this, and then laughs even harder as I chase her around and around a statue.
Behind us, smiling, hand-in-hand, are my parents. It is one the few times I can remember their being happy together. It is also one of the few times I can remember my father actually being around. They trail behind us, watching over us, and I’ve never felt so safe in my life. I feel that the world is perfect, that we will always be as happy as this moment.
Bree finds a seesaw and she’s ecstatic, beelining for it and jumping on. She doesn’t hesitate, knowing that I will jump on the other side and even her out. Of course I do. She is lighter than me, and I make sure not to jump too hard, so that she can balance with me.
I blink. Time has passed, I’m not sure how much. We’re now at a waterfront park somewhere. Our parents are gone, and we are alone. It is sunset.
“Push me harder, Brooke!” Bree screams.
I look over and see that Bree is seated on a swing. I reach over and push her. She goes higher and higher, laughing hysterically.
Finally, she jumps off. She comes around and hugs me, wrapping her little hands tight around my thighs. I kneel down and give her a proper hug.
She leans back and looks at me, smiling.
“I love you, Brooke,” she says, smiling.
“I love you too,” I answer.
“Will you always be my big sister?” she asks.
“I will,” I say.
“Do you promise?” she asks.
“I promise,” I say.