the five senses of childhood expectation by Olivia Sheahin (Illinois)

i.
the smell of cinnamon sifted throughout the corners of the house,
filling the air with sweet desire and the guilty pleasure of gluttony.
i was young; foolish and naive, though i make no claim or promise that i am no longer both.
a child until i was old enough to cross the street
to tell the neighbors to leave my brother alone.
i used to coat my toast in cinnamon like the salty taste of a lost childhood coated on my mind.
i don't like cinnamon anymore.

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ii.
the grainy texture of my wooden bed frame splintered into little pieces that i began to pick
whenever i made a home beneath it.
it was quieter, safer, warm.
a child until i was old enough to apologize to my mother
for a guilt that wasn't mine.
i used to pluck my bed frame whenever my brother began to scream, and i hid the scraps in the
bedsheet.
i don't pluck the bedframe anymore and i'm irrationally afraid of splinters.

iii.
the sight of my brother's face blushing deep scarlet, emotional wounds blistering openly on his
scarred skin.
his eyes darted quickly, a hummingbird among flowers, veins pulsing profusely, his heavy
breathing less regulated.
i knew all the signs, the warnings, the triggered response.
a child until i was old enough to take care of my brother
because my mother never knew how.
i remember standing on the sidewalk, holding his shaky hand and whispering reminders of the
importance of deep breathing and tactics for anger control.
i was seven.
i can't even comprehend how to help my brother anymore and it kills me more everyday.

iv.
the taste of softly flowing salty tears spilling down my cheeks and smothering my swollen eyes
in reminders of what i could lose.
his sun had no longer fought for its place in the sky; its burning hope slowly withered beneath
the horizon.
my parents pushed me slowly to his door to tell him what they couldn't get across.
a child until i was old enough to be a messenger
because i was the only family member he still loved.
i sat and talked gently about life, how much i needed him, and how much he meant.
i don't rely messages to my parents anymore but i promise them he's okay.

v.
the sound of threats to leave this planet, or at least this house, echoed and ricocheted in my head
until i curled myself in painful comfort and broke down.
i had done everything to raise him into learning how to be loved, i had done everything to repair
that the fall of his sun had broke.
why was it fair to me, for him to threaten to leave me?
a child until i was old enough
to blame the fall of my family on myself.
i am expected to be the rock of our family, to hold strong despite the corpses around me of
broken relationships and hopeless efforts of repair.
i don't try to fix my brother's problems anymore but it took me too long to recognize my own.