I remember the first time I held you in my arms.
You were tiny and fragile, and I feared that you would shatter if I touched you; your hands were curled up into tiny fists, and you had the most peaceful look on your face that I had ever seen. I had always wanted a sister, and you were the best present I ever received.
As each year passed, I was worried that our age gap would be too much, and we wouldn’t get along well or truly connect, but every year, you prove me wrong as you continue to grow.
When you were one, I thought that you were quite possibly the cutest baby in the entire world; when you were born, I brought printed-out photos of you to school and proudly showed everyone in the class how adorable my baby sister was.
Just two weeks later, you were coming to my fourth-grade book club with me, and everyone would come over to admire you and say hi. Everything you did amazed me, and every new thing you saw left an astounding look of joy and curiosity on your face.
When you were two, you began to form sentences and crawl all over the house, and I thought you were the smartest baby in the world. You said my name for the first time, and I told you that I would love you forever and ever.
I would go to school and bore all of my friends with the things you did and every new object you reached for. I would brag about how you were already speaking more intelligently than me and how one day, you were going to be the president.
When you were three, we were in quarantine together for a year, and I would give you piggyback rides around the house and play Legos with you. We would play make-believe; you would serve me food at the restaurant, and I would send it back every time.
We would go on family hikes, and I would beg to carry you around on my shoulders and then get tired after five minutes of carrying you.
When you were four, I would read you the same book every night. It was your favorite story, and night after night, you never got sick of it; even now, I have some of the pages memorized and can recite them verbatim.
All of my friends were obsessed with you, and even though you got on my nerves sometimes and made messes, I still loved you.
When you were five, you had the largest vocabulary of any five-year-old I know. You had so many passions and dreams, and you would tell me so many stories about everything you did; I know you’ll be a better writer than me.
Now you are six, a number you can no longer hold up with just one hand. You’re still the prettiest and smartest girl I know, and words will never be able to describe how much I love you.
You draw me masterpieces so gorgeous that they belong in museums, and you play Mario Kart with me and always choose the same character as me so we can match. You give me hugs and tell me we’re best sisters forever as we sing the “Linda and Heather Theme Song” from Liv and Maddie, a reference you’re somehow too young to understand.
You are so outspoken and brave, and I hope that you never lose your sparkle that everyone sees the moment they meet you. You are special: don’t ever forget it. Happy Birthday, Brielle.
