1973, R. & H.
I don't know if it's the holiday this week, the situation we're working through at home, or maybe it's wooly head-cold thoughts, but last night I went to bed thinking about all of the good things in my world- K., the boys, our home, health (head-cold aside), my sister, friends, this blogland community . . . the list went on. I went to sleep full of mushy feelings, even in the middle of the anxiety and worry. So, my plan is to write some love letters, to focus on what fills me. Here we go . . .
Today is my sister's birthday, so she's first up. Here we are in the tub, she was three, me ten. I actually remember mom taking the photo… I remember a lot about her growing up . . . standing in front of the first grade class announcing my mom was going to have a baby, and two weeks later, up there again, showing a small photo of her, pleased as punch. In between those presentations, was the night she was born. Mom and Dad were getting ready to go out for dinner, when Mom announced it was time. Very excited, I was jumping up and down with my younger two siblings, and shouting Friday the 13th was going to be a lucky day!
There was a piece of time when I tried to mother her through the teen years- giving advice about boyfriends, and keeping safe on the city bus. Later, I leaned on her for some support and validation in getting to some of the truth of my story. And even though some parts of our experiences were very different, she always believed me.
We've been to France and Italy together, and try to get to beaches when we can. I wish she didn't live clear across the country.
Our lives are very different, as are we, and we think differently about some things, but still have much in common, especially how we think about things. It's kind of cool how both sides are true. She's an artist, who has always encouraged me to believe I can- offering advice, cajoling, technical information as needed, and telling me to "just do it," or "let it go!" while I perseverate on and on.
I love laughing with her, sometimes till we cry . . . one of my favorite memories is of a time we were eating mushroom bruschetta in a beautiful restaurant. It was so delicious, we were weeping from the joy of it.
There are pages and pages of memories to hold, but I'll stop now, we are not the gushy sort. Happy birthday, R., I'm so glad you're my sister and friend. I love you.
(Where the bruschetta happened)
