Sisterhood

I’m not sure I would recognize my sister if she walked into this room and sat on my lap.

It’s been that long. Twenty-two years.

The last time I saw her was when my mother died. She came across country for the funeral, arriving two days later than planned because of bad weather, and then sat in the living room while I washed dishes with my daughter after having made dinner, which, I think, she missed or skipped. It was lasagna.

My sister had very high cheekbones and flawless skin. She was older than me by six years, but casual observers placed her as my little sister, her face not having the wear and tear so prominent on mine. More than her perfect face, my sister had extraordinary attitude. She had a regal demeanor as if she’d never spilled coffee on a white tablecloth or been left on the side of the road by a bad boyfriend. It fascinated me and I envied her. Always, since I was a little girl staying on my side of the bedroom at all times.

She didn’t speak to me that night of the lasagna. She spoke to my father and my brother and maybe to my daughter, but not to me. I noticed this but I didn’t mind. I felt at home in the kitchen. It was, after all, where my mother had spent much of her time, leaning against the counter, sometimes with her arms crossed, occasionally smoking a cigarette before mashing the potatoes. The kitchen was my mother’s home turf. I knew where everything was. I knew which apron was her favorite.

At the graveside service the next day, I sat next to my father in the front row. It was March and very damp and the metal chairs were cold and unfriendly. I held a Bible in my lap with my finger holding a place of a verse I’d planned to read. But I knew I wouldn’t read the verse. I could stand in the kitchen but not read the verse. It was alright though, I’ve said the verse many times since. My mother would be fine with that.

After the service, I saw my sister standing on a hill overlooking the small group of people who had come. She wore a trench coat and had her hands in her pockets. People we knew from a long time ago walked up to comfort her. I didn’t comfort her. We didn’t comfort each other. And, at the time, that seemed almost sadder than our mother dying.

Anyway, I haven’t seen my sister since that afternoon in a cemetery in Michigan. I have sent her letters which she returned unopened. She has her reasons. I can’t argue with her reasons though I can be mystified by her devotion to them.

We all have what we have and choose what we choose.