Memorizational Menaces

I sometimes stop, and in a panic, memorize my sister’s clothing. If I lost her right now, I’d be able to describe her to the cops. The way her golden hair was plaited, the converse she was wearing, and how her cardigan was buttoned.
I then imagine every worse case scenario. There are a thousand people here in this amusement park, at least half of them middle-aged men. Anyone who watches television knows that middle aged men are not to be trusted, and cannot control themselves. Why, anything could happen. I shudder, and pull her a little closer to me.
“Walk next to me! It’s weird that you’re always behind me,” I complain, as I meticulously commit to memory every piece of clothing she is wearing.
“I dunno where we’re going,” she sighs, her shoulders slanted to the left as her eyes roll up to the sky. Jean shorts. White converse.
“Well, you don’t have to! Just walk next to me,” I whine. “I always have to look over my shoulder to see where you are.”
“I’m right behind you!” she says angrily. Flowing white top, button-down with a black peter pan collar.
“Well, come up here,” I grab her by the elbow and haul her up by me.
“Uuuugh,” her hazel eyes are going to roll out of their sockets if she gets any more exasperated. No bracelets, but her hair is in a bun. There are a thousand people in the crowd, at least a hundred of them must be malicious. My sister’s only 15. And I’m 17. That puts me in charge. That makes me responsible. Her safety is dependent on my ability to keep pace with the dangers of this world. And to memorize her clothing.
I shudder and walk just a little bit closer.


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