My sister works out. She’s losing weight, she doesn’t always feel like it and, it doesn’t make her miss him any less; he’s still gone and the wound won’t heal. But she works out and sighs, and she’s my sister and I love her.
My heart sighs with my sister and I work out, and I think of her and the kids.
It makes me feel closer to her. I can relate to her in a shared kind of pain and procrastination. We get each other. And she’s reaching her goals and facing things I haven’t faced.
She’s always given up only to try again, whether it’s minutes, days, or years – she keeps pushing and raging and fighting. What I’m trying to say is that she never really quits. I know this because she’s my big sister and I’ve known her my whole life. She never gives up.
Sometimes, she just needs a break.
And maybe she gets me a little better too. Somehow, maybe she knows how I feel when I struggle with my workouts and maybe she understands how big my goals are because her goals are big too. Maybe she thinks about me and running and family. She knows how I feel when I can’t do it, and I have to stop. She knows about being able to do what you wanted to do as well.
Maybe she thinks of playing as children and terrible fights between siblings and all our Commons.