Bright as Yellow

   It scares me; the respect you think I deserve. Have I earned it? I don't know. 
   My Little One is such a force of nature. I appreciate so much the whirlwind that is age sixteen, the naivety and confusion she brings rushing back with every syllable. I'm so grateful for her; that perspective so shaped by age, yet still unique, still hers. 
   I watched this one grow up; I spent Friday nights babysitting her, though she was too old to need me and I was too young to provide any real discipline. I remember her harshness and her honesty. I was grateful for it then, as I am now. "Is this dress a little ugly?"  "Yes."
   I get nervous every so often; I lose people. I get scared sometimes, of being on a pedestal. It's such a long fall from grace when I inevitably tumble down. I have the bad habit of climbing to perch on any pedestal provided me; it's ego. The view is intoxicating, but it's temporary; only as long as I can balance until I come crashing down. There's a lot of pressure to stay still while I keep moving. 
   But she doesn't seem to mind when I fall short; she is the first in a lifetime of audiences who hasn't stopped applauding when I lose my lines. This analogy trivializes our relationship, and I don't mean to. I just don't have a better one. She isn't an audience. 
   What I'm trying to say is; it's different. I've had a lot of fans, a lot of hungry people at my feet, absorbing my words, trusting that they meant something when I said them. I'm not sure why or how I've had this privilege; I've never felt secure in it because I've never really wrapped my head around it; though how could I? Who could? It's unexpected. People try to grab hold of things they can't define, and I've always tried to embody various indefinable characteristics; I'm rambling now. But I always had an audience; doting, listening, flattering, cajoling. Until the first disappointment, and then suddenly I'm a "False Prophet." We're witnessing the aftermath of the last audience I let down now; the cruelty is biting. Love is so quickly replaced by bitter rejection and animosity! It's like I get stale and they turn off the television, then flock to the internet to fill facebook statuses with scathing reviews; "everything about her turned out to be a lie," "so ugly on the inside," "not fooling anyone."
   She doesn't fit the stereotype though, in so many ways she defies it. And I revel in that. She doesn't hold back. I don't think I scare her. And I'll admit it; I'm kinda scary. 
   I'm ecstatic to be present in her chaos, honored to be something solid she can steady herself on. And deeply, deeply grateful to her for finding what I say meaningful or worthwhile or relevant; and sometimes all three! 
   She isn't an audience, she isn't a follower. She's profound and insightful. She makes me laugh. It's refreshing. She's understanding of and sympathetic towards my imperfections; "You wouldn't be you without him." It's surprising and so comforting.
   This girl's one of the best friends I've ever had.