I remember. You were 11 and I was 6. Our bodies limp beneath the gentle ripple of Mama’s beige pashmina that hung across the arms of our two sofas in the living room. We had just completed our newly ideated escapade of crossing the Indo-Pak border and returning to safety- a wild quest that you decided we must undertake. I knew no better and followed suit. Once you told me we were safe and well within the Indian half of Kashmir, I settled in between the coloured cushions and stuffed dogs we had laid out before our adventure of the night. The gentle hum of the fan was landing heavy on my ears, and the crown of my head felt an occasional dip of the pashmina that moved with the rhythm of the fan. I looked over at you, despite the night’s events, your hair fell still and straight, and you wore a look of surety, calm and collected.
Maybe I started noticing it then- from the difference in our hair to the difference in our dreams.
You were 17 and I was 12. I watched you give your heart to someone undeserving. I didn’t understand what it meant- the power and blindness. I don’t think I understand now either and you tell me that’s okay.
You were 21 and I was 16. We were lying in bed as you delicately painted the way you pictured your wedding, and why you wanted two girls and one boy. You told me what being in love felt like- I did my best to understand. You listened to my insignificant high school drama and I knew that I was not 16 the way you were 16.
You were 22 and I was 17. We were on Facetime, separated by a thousand cities when you told me about your first date with a girl. I listened quietly as you recounted how it made you feel and I looked at your little face on the screen in utter awe. I felt a little smaller. You were growing, your head barely reached my shoulders, but in that moment you suddenly seemed much taller.
I’m 18 and you’re 23. You have a life in another city, independent and intelligent. We haven’t spoken in a while. I couldn’t tell you about the spec of fear that seems to expand in my head each day- that I’m so nostalgic for the past that I’m forgetting to be 18. I’m scared that I’ll forever be stuck in coloured ballpits and idle summertime.
Maybe our differences never bothered me, because I realised I’m okay with messy curls, curious dreams and my sense of self. We grew up together but separately. At some point, you started forgetting, and we crossed borders alone with new hands to hold. I still remember Mama’s beige pashmina, and sometimes I want to crawl back under.
Soon, we’ll both be leaving behind our little fort. There’s a confused gush of feeling and adventure. I’ll miss you.