A Requiem for a Girl That Never Existed
The one who was obsessed with Anna and Elsa.
The one who used to sing Let It Go like no one was listening.
The one whose favorite color used to be purple.
The one who wanted to dress as a princess for Halloween.
The one who asked me if he could paint his nails too.
The one who wished we could wear pretty dresses.
The one who sat through The Magic School Bus with me.
The one I taught how to use a microscope.
The one I bought a tiny model of the solar system for because I wanted him to see how beautiful the universe was.
The one who used to watch Strange Aeons videos with me.
The one who came home from school, ten years old, and casually told me that he had trans friends.
The one who thought it was the coolest thing in the world that I painted my nails black.
The one who later said he didn't want to listen to Elton John because he didn't like "gay music."
The one who later told me I was breaking the rules.
The one who later told me I was disobeying God.
The one who would later call me "faggot".
The last time I spoke to him was six months ago.
"Tata," as is his nickname for me.
I called because I wanted one last chance to tell him that I loved him.
I told him, calmly, that he wasn't obligated to love me.
But if he chose to walk the same path as the rest of our family—a path where my existence as a woman was something to be denied, corrected, or condemned—it was a path I could not walk beside him.
"I'm not talking to you little brother to big brother. I'm talking to you man to man. You need to stop being a little bitch and call mom."
I told him that I couldn't.
"Delusional. You'll never be my sister. You'll always be my older brother."
There are some people you lose to death.
There are others you lose while they're still alive.
People ask me sometimes why I don't just call.
The answer isn't that I don't miss them.
I miss my little brother every day.
I miss the child who loved Frozen.
I miss the one who sang Let It Go without a trace of self-consciousness.
I miss the one who wanted to see the universe through a microscope.
I miss the one who asked if he could paint his nails too.
I miss the one who wished we could wear pretty dresses.
I miss the one who thought black nail polish was the coolest thing in the world.
I miss the one who told me, with complete innocence, that he had trans friends at school, as though there were nothing unusual about it.
Whether she's in there anymore or not—whether she ever was—I still carry that little girl's dreams with me.
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