I am seventeen years old, plain-faced, sensitive and a trifle astute. I must admit I have a little problem in dealing with people – especially the ones I love. My parents are bothered with my ‘defect’ I can’t blame them; I’ve given them enough to worry about.

Nobody understood. I only did a couple of nights ago. I am careless with my dealings because I am very insecure. I pretend not to care because I’m sure that when one knows that I do, one might use it against me, or worse, leave me. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never been wronged because I’ve never risked. I hate losing things that matter. My mantra is “ what you never have, you never lose.”

For that reason I’ve never really been close to anybody. Anybody, that is, save my kuya. Well, he’s not really my brother and that fact alone caused ruffles among people who knew. My parents didn’t mind. For them, it was nice to see me trust someone so unconditionally. At least I’m not keeping much to myself anymore.

Yes we are close. We share a very rare bond. We get along so finely that we could have passed for biological siblings. We do have our share of arguments, quarrels, all those natural sibling stuff – but eventually I’d get over my sumpong and we’d be friend again.

Kuya never hold anything against me. He’s the kuya that all little girl would really, really love to have. People like him are few and far between so I consider it luck to j\have him. He’s not just my brother; he’s also my best friend. I’ve put him through more trouble than I can remember and I can’t help wondering how he makes it through them all and still stick around!

With him, I can let go of my worries. I know that if ever troubles come my way, all I have to do is look over my shoulder and there he’ll be, always eager and patient and willing to deliver me from harm’s jaws – even when I obviously thrusted myself headlong to it. He’s just so dependable that I can’t help but be a kid and do all the careless, stubborn things that I never did when I was a proper kid.

I bask in his attention. I love his presence in my life, to say the least. For him, I’m perfect!

It was February when he gave this wonderful gift. A plant inside a wine bottle. I was so captivate by it that I think I never got to thank him for it.

It was a small, green plant. Long blades caress the bottle’s sides as though pleading for freedom. It was a precious little thing and oh, so helpless. Not a day passed that I didn’t check its light supply and water supply. It was something that depended on me for dear life, the one thing that I will always treasure.

A friend asked to buy the plant in the bottle. Part with my treasure?! Will I? Can I? Only then did I fully realize its worth. I can’t give it away; it was my kuya’s gift.

The plant thrived, as did our closeness. We were two halves. I the headache and he the pill, we were that and more until that fateful day when somebody of considerable authority cruelly burst our secure little bubble by implying that what was between us was improper.

I was shattered.

All my past fears resurfaced. Fears that I thought were long gone. This is it, girl, my min said, the end of your carefree days.

That night the sedate clutches of sleep failed to claim my consciousness. I lay tossing on my bed sorting things out, a hopeless bundle of confusion. Everything that was said meant that the best thing to do was part ways with my brother. The brother I early love.

How? After all that we’ve been through, this inevitable parting was the farthest thing from my mind. The thing I dreaded is happening. I’m losing somebody and there was nothing I could do to stop it!

Then I remember the plant in a bottle. I took it from its resting-place and examined if for the longest time.

A few weeks ago I noticed a strange clingy weed that sprouted from the moist soil. It clung to the leaves of my plant; dragging them low they kissed the soil. The ends of the blades, those that came in contact with the soil, were turning yellow, then brown.

It was then that saw the irony.

How like us the plant was. Nurtured, cosseted showered with lavish attention, yet sensitive, frail unfree, without the benefit of open space.

Tears stained my cheeks as I held the bottle to my heart. I know I had to break it. I would not rest until it is shattered in a thousand pieces. I wish the plant’s freedom. I want it in a huge pot – or better yet on the ground under my window.

I cried.

Oh, why must a weed spoil everything?