The hardest thing about adventures is that you cannot take everyone with you. You have to choose–to go, to leave–and not everything important can be stuffed into a suitcase. In fact, the most important things (people) will never fit in a suitcase at all. And no matter how often I facetime or talk to her on the phone, she cannot come with me. I am twenty five, living and working in San Francisco. She:
…is on her own adventure as a three year old–starting school, dressing up to play pretend, giggling with new friends.
She makes me laugh harder than anyone I’ve ever known in my life. I miss her more than I could describe or write. The thing is, having a blog (again), is weird. I am exhausted by the time I get home. The last thing I feel like doing is writing and yet that is the one thing I want to do with my life. If that isn’t a quagmire, let me know what is. (No, but seriously, let me know.)
I have a brother who I love and adore but having a younger sister is different. I don’t ever want to ask, “Do I look fat in this?” in front of her. I want to gather up all the love–our dad painting her fingernails while she drinks a Shirley Temple, our brother rough housing with her as she says “Joey, get me!”, her mom braiding her hair like Dorothy’s–and bottle it, to give to her later when she is 13 or 16 and it’s harder to be a girl and then a young woman. I want her to enjoy every ounce of being a little kid but I wish I could bottle all the hugs and kisses for her later so she never allows the world to convince her that she is less than totally and completely loved, every single part of her, not for what she does but for who she is.
I want to be a good big sister. I want to do things that I am passionate about and chase dreams I have so that she will chase her own someday. And so I left her. I went to San Francisco and I left her. If that’s not irony, I don’t know what is. Some days it is so hard but I know I am supposed to be here and it has nothing to do with selfishness but with the fact that God saw to it that there are twenty two years between us and though we are as close as close can be (and really, we are) she has her adventures and I have mine.
So, I write this, exhausted. I should have pulled out a prompt and written that. Or finally gotten to my bio. But I didn’t. Instead, I wrote about her, my little sissy, who I will now go and facetime, who I adore, adore, adore.
The point, I guess, is that I wrote. I put pen to paper, metaphorically. I do it for myself, because I love it, and when I am too tired to remember that I love it, I do it for her, so she knows that dreams begin small and then grow and grow and grow. So she knows that we do some things by faith, never knowing the outcome, or if it will ever truly be “worth it.” Because I want her to be proud of me; I want to be a sister without regrets.