Young Writers Project: 'Too Young For Something Like Diabetes'

As I walk into the hospital,
I breathe in the scent of disinfectant
and stale air,
and the fluorescent lights 
make me squint
as I shake off the snow
that has accumulated on my jacket. 
In the elevator,
I press number three,
because you're there. 
I close my eyes
and try to not think
about it all too much
because 
I have to appear strong.
I'm your older sister,
the one who protects you,
keeps you safe,
doesn't let bad things happen to you.
I guess this particular situation was 
out of my control. 
My boots are soundless
as I leave the elevator
and turn the corner,
your room in sight. 
318, a green sign reads above 
your open door. 
My breath leaves my lungs
and refuses to come back 
when I see you. 
Your hair is still perfect
even though it's messy.
Your wide green eyes crinkle up,
happy to see us,
but your pain is easy to see. 
You're dressed in a smock
with little designs spread across it,
tied in back.
You look small as you lie there,
but you also look so tired,
so old. 
A foreign tube forces liquid into 
your innocent arm
jabbing into that sweet crook,
your young blood dried and stained 
on the gauze. 
I smile and force air 
in and out,
out and in. 
You're smiling and talking
about how much blood 
they've taken from you
but you're okay,
because you're strong
and don't complain much.
This is going to change how you live.
This isn't going away,
and it isn't going to be easy. 
But, oh, my brother,
I will help you and
I will see you through.
I promise. 
Because you're too young for this.
Too young to handle it on your own.