Growing up with my Maestro By Samantha Beder AND the world was silent. It was as if all sound had fallen away into a crevasse of insignificance as I held the tiny being in my shaking palm. I felt her heart flutter against mine and the slow reassuring rise and fall of her chest as she slumbered. Her delicate hands were closed into balls against her small face, her mouth pursed in sleep, her eyes unopened and unseeing. I curled my body around hers, holding on to this precious treasure who had put her trust in my trembling grip, my youthful innocence. What's her name? I had asked in hushed awe. Amber, my mother had replied wearily. As my Maestro grew up, she captivated all those around her with her endearing brown eyes and the cloud of ginger hair that hung around her head. She carefully set up a residence somewhere inside me, a place where she will live permanently. I knew at that time, that one day she would grow older, and one day I would hate her for stealing my clothes, for going through my stuff and generally for causing arguments throughout the family. I knew, but I didn't care, because in those moments, I had a sister who laughed for no reason - a cackle of sorts, a melody of cheeky syllables, like sunlight twirling along clear water. I had a sister who would smile at me through wide dancing eyes and the few teeth that she had. I had a sister who could babble my name and make my heart melt. When she was one, my parents realized something was wrong. I was too young to look beyond the spell she had cast on me, to notice that she should be crawling, when she was bum shuffling, to notice she should be babbling words when slowly it seemed they were slipping away. Then, suddenly, she stopped saying my name. At 10 or 12 I was faced with the realization that my baby sister was going to stay a baby. After two and a half years, she had slowly regressed into murmuring strings of nonsense, had taken to furiously wringing her hands and pulling her hair, and was failing to walk up steps without being helped. In that time, I found myself confused and scared, not knowing the nature of my future as much as hers, and I reached out to her and tried to protect her. And yet, through all the uncertainties, my sister never changed. Her skills were slipping, her words non-existent and at times she seemed frustrated, but she stuck through it and smiled as she stumbled. The bond I had with her strengthened and it became something I relied on. Seven years later, Amber has grown to become my rock. She can tell when I'm upset and her love is always there and unconditional. She understands my problems, without judging, recognition in her eyes, her small hand resting on my shoulder. And when I found it all to hard to deal with, when I worried about how it would all work out in the end, Amber would still be there for me and while I cried for both for us, she would show me how to smile. Amber, without realizing it, has inspired me to do something more with my life and to help people who can't help themselves. Amber's condition has made me realize the cruelty of the world, that someone who only knows how to love can be subjected to so much pain. Because of Amber I don't just want to be an architect or doctor - I aspire to be a better person, to be remembered as someone who gave, to be remembered as someone who helped. Every morning I sit down to breakfast, and watch my Maestro being spoon-fed by my mother. She bangs the table for more, her hands wringing until they're raw, her eyes wandering in her fatigue. I give her a kiss, sit down and help myself to a banana and begin to eat. My Maestro looks up and, fatigue falling away, she smiles at me through perfect crooked teeth, shining brown eyes, her golden hair scribbling down her back. In that moment, all I can think about is the time she babbled my name and hope that one day she would say it again.
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