rough draft nepotism

when i was in first grade, you came to florida on vacation. 

chris and danielle sat in front of a glowing television as you sat on my parents' sofa, donna bustling in the kitchen with my mother. it was just two short years after my health problems began slowly emerging, and i remember feeling the dread of being sun sick and nauseous; too anxious to tell my mom, lest another trip to the hospital befall me at a time like this. i made it through the restaurant hours prior; brushing the itch out of my clothes after chris poured sand down the back of my dress. 

i was never interesting for the right reasons.

but i can't miss it. i won't miss it. i can't let it get so bad that i miss it. 

in the glow of our living room, i feel closer than ever to being interesting enough. i've worked hard to take up this space. (my mom's voice, whispering: "one day, when you're older, they'll be glad to be your friend. kids aren't always kind. it's okay. it'll be okay.") 

so close to my favorite uncle. so close, so close. i made myself a small place on the only remaining cushion, hoping only to hug a pillow tight enough to make myself a space in your family. 

our family. 

the family found me and made me theirs.

i'll never forget the ease with which you lifted your arm to make room, scooping both me and the pillow into your lap. i let it happen without a second thought, grateful that such an option had presented itself. (don't you see? it's working. it's working. shhh, shhhhh.)

in the light of the screen, i wonder if this is what love is for people ill acquainted with words. your hand is absently stroking my hair and i think i could be the kind of person who fits in here. no more hospitals. no more tests. no more waves of nausea to carry me away from the moments i have to prove my worth. no more wishing i were funny or interesting like chris, discerning because people who move through life like him can be nothing less. 

no needles, no sadness, no more wishing i were interesting enough to be seen.

by you. by them. by anyone.

my mom walks in with fresh beers and something salty in a bowl. you whisper that i might not be feeling well, and i lay still to prove i can stay in this moment.

no more hospitals. no more needles.
please mom, just five more minutes to belong somewhere.

in the light of the tv, danielle pokes the dog with a magic marker and demands affection, earning a shout from donna and a glare from you. chris is glowing, full of that familiar charisma that makes me feel small, yet grateful just to bear witness. i am always so grateful just to be there; to listen when he talks, his words wrapped in gift paper and bestowed by virtue of our relation. he tells me things and i listen; learn not to try too hard, or comment too much. i learn to curl up tighter and bask in their light, because maybe that's what it means to love someone.

in another world, everything would be different.
in this timeline, i am lucky.

the room is spinning, but i'm not afraid. i am curled up with someone that can't be touched; someone who sees me and doesn't push me away.

i had a favorite uncle once, and no bruised forearms can scrub this from the folds of my mind. i had a favorite uncle once, and even he can't take that away.