as women do

notes from my sister's house

I have always known I was lucky to have a sister. Or, maybe more accurately, I have always known I was lucky to have the sister I do. My parents saved a cassette tape recording of my birth and when I found it in my early twenties I was unsurprised to hear that one of the first things out of my dad’s mouth when I made my world debut was, “your sister’s gonna love you!” because she has. She just always has.

Sure, we’ve had our lows. The day she stopped matching outfits with me when I was 5 and she was 7. The day she pinned me down and sneezed in my face so I chased her around the yard threatening to throw a golf ball at her head when I was 9 and she was 11. The day she assessed my physical appearance and declared my body good but my face unfortunate when I was 13 and she was 15. The day she filed for divorce and I was too self-righteous to support her when I was 27 and she was 29.

We’ve always been close — and we’ve always been very, very different. Were we not related, I’m not sure either of us would have chosen the other as a confidant at all. But fate is a sneaky minx and so we were gifted this unlikely friendship whether we liked it or not. And gosh have we liked it.

I know not every woman feels so lucky about the sister straw she drew, and I know there are a million legitimate reasons for that. Maybe we’re the exception more than the norm. I’m not sure.

But I hope that every woman gets to have a sisterhood like ours, in some way, shape, or form. Screw bloodlines and family trees, let them come any way they will come. I think it’s our birthright. I think every woman deserves to have at least one real sister with whom to share anxieties and celebrations, griefs and delights, inside jokes and deathbed secrets. I think we’re made to wipe each other’s tears, tend to each other’s bodies, make each other blush, snicker, roar with laughter.

I spent this past week in the Colorado apartment my sister calls home, ostensibly to attend a concert but mostly to bathe myself in the sunshine of her presence. The concert was indeed a blast, the shopping was productive, and good god the sleep was incredible. But my favorite part was hiking together at Red Rocks.

It was hot and there was virtually no shade, so we plopped our butts down right on the side of the path beside a bush and cracked open the cold sparkly drinks that she had the foresight to bring in a cooler bag. This is why she is the big sister.

Little sister brought a poetry book — specifically, this poetry book — and read a few aloud. (Thanks,

Joy Sullivan

!)

Reading poetry out loud to someone is one of the purest expressions of love. My sister is not a poet herself, and will readily admit that she often doesn’t understand the form. But she understands the offering. She understands the love. And, it turns out, she understands this poem. Maybe you will too.

If you listen to the audio of this post, I read it aloud. If not, you’re on your own kid.

Making light, making steady, making safe with you,

Shannon