My families knees know how to kneel. My father's knees kneeling the most, upon a cushioned bench, every day throughout his childhood, but now on Sundays, while the bells rings bounce off the walls, and echo in your head, you can find him, steady and calm, with his hands folded together like a well knit sweater, kneeling down. Jackson’s knees know no such bench, raised on a field of cleats, grass stained clothes, and bad hygiene, that he occupied every Sunday. His knees are wide like an elephant, not meant for running, but strong none the less. Nate’s knees kneel alongside my fathers in the pews, and run along side me, as we play games of tag, and soccer. His knees are slender and small, like a rabbit's knees, bouncing off the walls. He still has much to grow into, and fill their potential. My mother knees are that have been used thoroughly, and still hold their muscle tone from, “The Cheerleading Years,” and from the hustle and bustle of everyday life.
My knees are not like my families knees. My knees are worn down, Osgood-Schlatter the doctor called it. Thin, and tall they have a long stride, with pain in each step. Sensitive to the touch, “you’ll grow out of it.” the doctor said. It’s been 7 years, and has only gotten worse. My family doesn’t have bad knees, they don't understand why I can't kneel on the cushioned bench beside them. Instead I sit by my brother. My knees are crying, with no one to hear, like little china dolls cracking at the smallest tap. I wish my knees could kneel.