The young girl pressed her nose firmly against the glass and her breath made a tiny circle of steam underneath. Long brown hair fell all the way to her hips. “When do I get my bubblegum cigar?” she questioned her stepdad, unimpressed by the tiny balls of fury on the other side of the window. “I want to go home,” the girl stepped away from the glass. Her lips squished into an odd-shaped frown as she folded her arms and shuffled her small frame to her left hip. “Hospitals are boring and they smell funny.”
When she was finally able to go home, stuff was different. There was the crying. So. Much. Crying. At first, anyway. And there were the smelly diapers. Yuck.
But the worst part of this new little person, was all the sharing she had to do with her. First, her mommy couldn’t color in her Lisa Frank coloring book or watch Jem and the Holograms like she used to, because she had to feed and clean the baby. That made the little girl’s lips turn upside down into a frown. Then when the baby got older, she had to share her Beverly Hills 90210 Barbies (which the baby ruined, by the way) and the television. Instead of Jem, they were watching Barnie. Can you believe she had to watch that big purple dinosaur? Who was this small, red-faced thing and why was she suddenly so important? She was pretty sure sisters were no good.
In high school, the older sister started dancing and the younger one followed her lead. Dancing bonded them together. They were able to make their separate paths, distinct from the other, but together simultaneously. They began to share laughter.
It wasn’t until the older sister, newly wedded, packed up a U-haul for a move north that she first felt the tether strung between them. It connected them at the heart. “I’ll miss you so much,” she said, wrapping her freckled arms tightly around her sister. “But I’ll be back soon. And you can visit whenever you want.” As they untangled from their embrace, the older girl looked at her baby sister, no longer a baby, and tried to remember if she had ever felt as close to a person. She hadn’t.
“Please don’t leave,” her younger sister said quietly. “I need you.” Tears stung her already glossy eyes.
A sister is the only person who will willingly pick spinach from your teeth when you have no mirror or floss. And will tell you how God-awful that brand new mustard-yellow cable knit sweater looks without so much as a mouth twitch.
She will somehow be your best and worst wingman simultaneously (when you’re young and single, of course). And laugh at your honesty when you admit that you kind of thought hurricanes and typhoons were almost the same.
She’s the one who had to wear the horrible matching outfits for pictures with you, scarring you both for life.
She will let you borrow anything from her closet. EHH-NEE-THING. And will snatch that Bud Light right from your hand when you’ve had too much to drink. And tell you when you need to lay off the pizza and hit the gym. But she also tells you how pretty you are.
A sister is special because even though you may fight, it’s nearly impossible to stay mad at her. You can have pajama parties with her as an adult and make up dance routines to Footloose or Like a Virgin without feeling like a moron. She has seen your house at its dirtiest. Hell, she’s even cleaned your dishes once or twice. And If someone hurts you, she’ll cut a b*tch. Without question. Without fail.
She is the best aunt to your kids, the best listener you know, the best friend you’ve got. She’s your sister.
The little girl was me and the tiny ball of fury was my younger sister, Brittany. Today, almost two and a half states stretch between us, but it doesn’t matter. She is the first person I call when I need to cry. When things get all wonky, she sorts them out. I do the same for her. We’ve got two hearts tethered together.
Photo courtesy of Annie Spratz/Unsplash