#21.

july, my sister, wore only white lace dresses and heart-shaped sunglasses. she tied her messy hair neatly into pigtails and smelled like freshly mown grass, rainfall, and sunshine. she liked picking dead dandelions and blowing away their fuzzy parts--sometimes, she would let me join in this mysterious and intricate ritual: "close your eyes," she whispered, while gently entrusting the frail flower into my small hands. closing my eyes, i would hear her mutter a little something and then, i felt a warm breath brush the tips of my fingers. when i opened my eyes, the air around me was encased in beautiful, mobile bits of white and heather grey. she said that they were made of pixie dust, like all things beautiful in the world: daisies, bubbles, dust bunnies, and music notes. at that time, she looked so pretty that i thought that maybe she,too, was made of this ethereal substance. july, my sister, disappeared when i was seventeen. sometimes, i think i see her out of the corner of my eye: she wears her white lace dress and heart-shaped sunglasses and is holding a bouquet of fresh yellow dandelions. and i think she sees me too, because sometimes we'd catch each other's glances and she waves a sad little notion. july, my sister, went back to her beginning, when i was, but, young and tender Seventeen.