So, my sister might be blushing right now because she didn’t know I was going to write this post. Or maybe she’s not blushing–she’s the youngest in the family so attention is an old friend. This is how she used to smile for the camera:
I’m five years older than she is. When we were kids, she followed me everywhere. She followed our brother, too, but he was even older and usually wanted nothing to do with us. Some of my friends got annoyed but I never minded. She was entertaining and I was quiet. I liked to observe and she liked to ham it up. Still does. It’s not a surprise that I’m a writer and she’s a therapist for children with disabilities who sometimes slap, kick, and bite her.
We called her Katiebug. Our favorite game was chasing each other around my bed. We called it, appropriately, “Chase Around the Bed.”
She often sat in her little chair and let me teach her everything I knew on the chalkboard in the basement.
She snuck in and slept with me many nights. Other times, she knocked once on the wall adjoining our rooms. I knocked in response to say goodnight.
That was a long time ago. She’s moving to Ireland for a year on Wednesday and I’ll miss her.
When she started high school, I was off at college. We grew apart and I lost track of the details of her life. She got tripped up for awhile. We almost lost her to a lousy boyfriend and too many drugs. What’s important is she got back up. No one forced her. We just surrounded her with worry and love and she stood up all on her own.
I didn’t figure out how much I would have missed her until she came back to us. That’s when I realized I almost had a life without her friendship.
We’ve stacked a lot of memories in the last eleven years since our first road trip, memories that fill our cups and flow around us. They scatter–were those biker maids from Utah or Colorado? Did we see wild mustangs in Wyoming or South Dakota? Did we climb that promontory in Ireland at Dunmore Head or Garraun Point? And which road trip did we experience what “soft shoulder” meant?
Late night chats in the dark of unfamiliar hotel rooms. Songs and conversations to fill the hours and the roads, past sagebrush and rocky mountains, truckers and giant windmills. Pine Ridge. Starved Rock. Dixon. We share a desire to make memories. It is purposeful, diligent, and carefree.
Don’t get me wrong–we’re sisters. We used to fight to wake the dead. She can still throw me a look that makes me want to wipe it off her face with my foot. But they’re fewer and farther between as we get older. And luckily, she still thinks I’m perfect.
She says she’s a bit terrified to move to Dublin. Of course. Everyone would be. But here’s the thing–not everyone would still go.
Slainte to you, Katiebug. I love you more than my luggage.
True STORIES. 