June 2, 2017
I had the opportunity to teach a Creative Writing class this past semester. I am proud of my students and have been sharing some of their personal essays over the last few days. Today I have posted a personal essay by junior Sarah Mastrian, writing on the love she has for her two brothers:
Bonded by Blood
I feel a hand grab mine. It is warm and sure and strong. A wave of comfort washes over me, keeping me from drowning in my tumultuous thoughts. It tells me everything will be alright. A smaller hand grabs my other, likewise reassuring me that I am not alone, that I have somebody to lean on. Where would I be without these hands? They pull me from the dark into the light.
These hands have been following me my whole childhood. I do not even remember a moment when I was without them, but pictures tell me it was only after the first two years of my life that the first hand came along. His hand used to be so tiny and chubby, fitting in the palm of my hand; now it dwarfs mine. Two years after and the smaller of the hands joined our family. I can not imagine a life without those two hands. For better or for worse, I know that I am stuck with them wherever I go.
These hands were the ones that used to pull my hair on the bad days. Days when there was only one juice box left and no one felt like sharing. Younger days, when compromise and civil attitudes were incomprehensible ideas. Days when our developing minds were easy to temper and tease. These hands were the ones that used to scratch and slap, when we were unable to put our thoughts and feelings into words. These hands used to point at me, putting the blame for the broken vase or the muddy footprints on me. These hands were the ones that used to pester me endlessly and I would wonder: why, why do I have to put up with these hands? Doesn’t anyone else want them? At times, I felt like these hands were the very bane of my existence, plaguing me.
Yet these hands were the same hands that played with me. They brought the dolls in the dollhouse to life. These hands were the ones that built towering castles of sand with me on our seaside family vacations. These hands were the same ones that learned how to catch and throw a baseball alongside me. These hands were the same ones that played around the world with me on our homemade basketball concrete court. These hands were the ones that pushed me down slides and sledding hills, always giving me a head start. These hands were the ones that would sometimes braid my hair with ribbons, even paint my nails. These hands were my biggest competitors in Monopoly board games on family game night. These hands would cover their faces as we played hide-and-go-seek in the dark and Marco Polo around our grandmother’s pool. These hands would grab on tight to mine as we swung around in ring-around-the-rosy. Behind those hands, we would share secret smiles. These hands were my first friends.
I have a lot to thank these hands for. They were with me through the worst and best of times. While they may irk me, I know that they are the few things that I can count on to be in my corner for the rest of my life. While we may have our fights, we are family. These hands taught me about patience and cooperation. These hands taught me about tenderness and consideration. These hands taught me about respect and responsibility. But most of all, these hands taught me about family.
My name is Sarah Mastrian. I am a high schooler at Bishop Chatard. I live in Indianapolis, Indiana. I am seventeen years old. I have a dog named Shadow and a cat named Sylvie. I play softball. I enjoy playing the piano and spending time outdoors. I am stubborn and headstrong. But most importantly, I am a sister.