Silver With Envy

The day was dull until the door shot open. She ran towards me. She sat down. Took a breath. Told me she had big news to tell. I looked at the family photo behind her. Two proud parents. But they weren’t looking at me. She came first. I glanced back at her. Because if I didn’t, she’d whine. She wore an ebony black sweatshirt that day, and a bright white smile. I nodded. She launched. Her arms were not hanging, limp, lifeless at her sides. Nor crossed across her chest like mine. But active and expressive as she explained what had happened today. Her fingers squirmed. Wriggling like the live octopus legs I one time had at a sushi restaurant. They acted as though by moving as much as possible would somehow save them from being eaten. Her legs swung, back and forth. The same tempo as this annoying metronome I used for one clarinet lesson. I smiled slightly. She showcased a piece of paper that represented her achievement. Her ‘great’ feat was silver. I scoffed. Her silver couldn’t afford my praises. Not gold? I asked. I thought just because you tie a pretty ribbon on trash doesn’t make it special. Just because there were words like ‘NASA’ and ‘national competition’ doesn’t mean you’re some kind of genius. Just because mom and dad looks only at you doesn’t mean you’re gold. And I’m silver. She wore an ebony black sweatshirt that day, and an ebony black frown to match.