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| Me and my sister. |
A Memory:
She's begging me to stop but I won't. This is how I like to play Barbies and it's exciting. Her way is boring. She just wants them to change dresses and go to parties, I want them to have backstories and motivations and sex with each other. She tells me I'm gross and she's going to hit me if I don't stop it. I don't care this time, I'll just tell mom if she hits me. She stomps off dramatically and I play by myself.
A Memory:
We are on an airplane headed to Toronto. Just her and me, holding hands with equal parts excitement and nervousness as the city's beautiful skyline comes into view. It's nighttime and the CN Tower looks like a toy from here. We want to stay in this moment for hours, almost there but not there yet. Visiting our dad is only fun on the surface. We aren't comfortable there and nobody really loves us the way we know mom does. I look at my little sister as she stares out the window and I hope she doesn't try to stand up for herself, or for mom, again. Getting us in trouble with her need to stick up for what's fair and right. I let go of her hand and start tidying up our seats.
A Memory:
I'm alone on the swings during recess, singing to myself. The sound of all the children playing around me is distracting and makes my voice sound pretty. I see her break from a group of kids, all younger than me, and run in my direction. I try not to notice her, I'm having fun alone. She calls my name and I'm annoyed. She begs me to help, someone my age is bullying them and she told her friends that I would take care of it, that her big sister would step in and make everything alright. I'm afraid of the kids my age so I tell her to go away. Can't she see I'm busy?
A Memory:
She's so comfortable and happy playing with our new brothers. She wraps them in blankets and tries to tell them the rules but none of them understand. They are from families who drank alcohol and hurt each other and they all have disabilities. I don't know why mom adopted them and I don't like learning about them. But she's so comfortable and I don't know my role. She tells them and plays with them and even gets frustrated with them in ways that seem like she doesn't care about disabilities. Does that make me a better big sister? Because I'll be careful and skirt the issues? I don't know my role and she isn't playing with me anymore.
A Memory:
The teen years. We are like the wind and the leaf. Necessary to each other, dancing together, craving the attention that comes with the unpredictable twists and turns of our pairing but afraid of it also. We don't always know who is the wind or who is the leaf but we always dance, duck and weave, disappear into the piles and gusts of unfamiliar leaves and winds, but find each other again. These memories are more private. They are ours even when they aren't the same.
A Memory:
I have children and she loves them almost as much as I do. Maybe just as much as I do but differently. She watches me with them and tells me I'm wonderful. I accept her words and the invitations to sleep in her guest room. She pays for everything and I let her. My children love her and I love her and I know how lucky we are to have her. She plays with us the way she taught me to play with our brothers. No judgements, no fear, no careful words or skirting issues. She wraps my boys in blankets and we know we're safe with her.
A Memory:
Her daughters are beautiful. I will do anything for them because I know she would hurt if they hurt. She is a mom now too and I am overflowing with happiness and fear. I know what this is. Being a mom is all encompassing and the greatest hardest scariest thing in the world. She now has so much more to lose but only because she has so much more to love. I would get off the swing for them; for her. I hope I never have to get off the swing for them.
A Memory:
Our children are playing together and we are sipping coffee. Our husbands don't understand a word we say because we talk too fast and interrupt each other and understand concepts before they are completely explained, but these are the words we came here to say. We didn't know them until we were together, and now that we are together we can know them. They make our lives better. She makes my life better.
A Memory:
We are in a coffee shop and this time I'm buying the coffee. I feel proud and grown up. The barista asks us if we're twins and I love it! My immediate thought is: what a compliment. My next immediate thought is: what if my sister doesn't want to look like me? She's beautiful and I don't think I'm beautiful. Not in the way she is, pressed and perfect in an easy relaxed way. I hardly ever brush my hair and I wear the same clothes three days in a row. I respond quickly with a huge smile and a clap of my hands and a goofy dance and I tell the barista she's made my day. What a compliment to look like her! I am not cool, not like her, but I stepped up and took over before she might have to lie about not wanting to be mistaken for twins.
A Memory:
We are almost two thousand miles away from each other, sipping coffee and talking on the phone. We are sharing the words only we understand and feeling the distance disappear. We love each other in ways only certain types of sisters can understand, and we are lucky. She knows, somehow, that now I would get off the swing for her, despite my fear. I know, somehow, that she would still ask me to, despite my long ago rejection. We talk and talk and sip and talk. We both feel the conversation is unfinished and leaves us with a small emptiness but only because we want more.
With her, I am given more than enough and I always want more.
Happy birthday to my little sister!
She has giving me the most, which is why I could comfortably share so much here with you.
Because we will never run out and could never give it all away.
Ours is never ending.
Happy birthday, Brandessa!!!!
I love you so much!!!!
Hugs, smiles, coffee, and love!!
Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)
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| Me and my sister. |
