Today is my sister’s birthday. She’s 22 months older than I am and we shared a room, and often a bed, until I was 8 when we each got our own rooms. We slept in the hallway between them because being close was all we ever knew.
There’s a bond here that I don’t know how to explain but it’s strained by life. Strained by personal demons and the unforgiving past of regrets. In all honesty I don’t really know her anymore although we live mere streets apart – we never see eachother.
She now has her own daughters and has talked about remembering her and I as little girls through seeing her own girls interact.
Having 2 girls, close in age as sisters, is something I’ll never experience. And other than the memories of my childhood and the crazy adolescence of my family – I don’t think I’ll ever get to really personally experience it again either. And it’s a bit like feeling that somehow part of me is missing. Broken.
I don’t write specifically about my family for all kinds of reasons (this being one of them) some of it’s too raw and it’s not entirely my own story to share. Some of my family has straight up asked me not to and I will completely respect that. But even when someone’s alive and well – living doors down the road from you – they can still be dead. And how in the hell am I suppose to reconcile that?
What’s the saying? – Having a sister is like being born with a best friend? I grew up with mine and then she left. And I feel foolish enough to admit that if she would come back I would still braid her hair, sleep in the hallway and ask her to tell me another story.
Happy Birthday, bean.