The Smallest Size

The smallest size ever always fits me in clothes and shoes. The dilemma of getting the smallest piece in the market doesn’t go smoothly every time. My older sister took the perfect size and left me the smallest ever.
In the kitchen, I choose the smallest coffee pot, the smallest cup, the smallest dish, and my sister takes a moderate size.
My portion of food is smaller than the portions of the rest of the family.
In relationships I have the smallest circle, I close it tightly and sleep in its center comfortably, while my sister sleeps deeply without circles or closures.
In the foreteller’s cup, I always get a small fish, so small that it can’t be seen without looking closely, so she consoles me saying: / a small yet beautiful fish / and to my sister she says / a whale /
In love, I gathered the small of hearts, all of them in my notebook, small promises, small stayings, small persistences…
Then all those hearts I loved became so tight for me.
And here I am, as usual, writing long texts lamenting the things that threw me. My sister crosses her legs, resting in the memories of the loved ones.
In luck, I took the small burnt part while my sister took the big corner of chocolate.
I diminish more the more I am sad which is not a good thing to tell my anxious mom about.
I regress myself like a primitive plant whenever the finger of sadness approaches me, I close my eyes and try not to wait for the moment it pounces on me.
My sister is growing her claws and thorns on her back.
I took smaller portions of everything and the Lord gave me a generous share of anxiety.
Today I think – after I understood God’s cruel policy – that the greatest share of anxiety made me have the smallest portion of food, the smallest size in clothes and shoes, the smallest thing of everything. So here I am, I know the reason for this smallness.
The only dilemma that remains is that I do not have an older sister.
Lord, who stole all my shares?
Who took the rest of me?

Julie Bitar

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