I could never do the small simple things,

whistle, snap, write my s’s, 

blow bubbles the size of my hand.

as sisters, we’d taunt each other with 

the impossibles.

you’d snap at my poorly formed sentences, 

stumble over my untied shoes,

whistle with grandpa, 

while I tried through the gap in my tooth.

one day, our hands are covered in soap,

we dunk them in the sink and 

slap them together in synced giggles.

our creation: an iridescent bubble the size of our heads,

it wanes and bounces and dances on our linked fingers.

tomorrow, you tug my hair, 

stretch a wad of gum between your fingers and teeth,

give me bunny ears in our back to school picture,

you blow a big baby pink bubble with your gum 

and I pop it with my pencil.