Soapbox

Sister, Dearest

    There are four sisters in my family, which by any reckoning, but particularly in these days of small families is a plethora of the feminine.
     My little brother, the last and only male sibling, calls himself “The thumb on the mitten of life” and I’m certain there are times when he feels a mere appendage, subsumed by the sisterhood.
     It has been said, by one who knows us, “Wherever two or more are gathered, there is a coven”. Ah, but there is magic both black and white
in the potent brew cooked up by so many sisters.
     The black magic howls like a hurricane of resentment, jealousy and old hurts,  nurtured on a diet of eye of newt and toe of “mom-liked-you-best” but when the magic is good it can lift you above any pain, any loss or despair  and sustain you, validate you, complete you- because in part, it IS you.

    We four sisters come by all this naturally,  having grown up watching our mother and her sisters, and our grandmother with her sisters alternately support and undermine, love and avoid each other. The sister relationship contains onion layers of affection and hate, competition and unwavering support, approval and resentment all nestled inside each other, contradicting each other making the eyes water and the tongue burn with things said and left unsaid.

     I do not know the bond of brotherhood,  but those of you who have no sisters cannot begin to fathom all that is contained in that small word.
     A sister is a mystery wrapped within an answer, a nemesis wrapped in a hero, a pain in the ass contained within a best friend. Because the sister who will slap you silly if she catches you touching her stuff will also beat the snot out of anyone she catches tormenting you.

     The sister who will still never let you forget the day in 1979 when you borrowed- and tore- her blue sweater is the same one who emptied out her closet and jewelry box for you when she heard that your ex was going to be at the Christmas party with his new girlfriend and you needed to look really, really fine.

     The one who gets out a calculator to figure exactly how much you owe her  every time you split the check at lunch is the one who quietly left 50 dollars on your kitchen counter  when she knews money was tight.

     You know the sister who has no children is the one who will tell you how to raise yours, and the sister with two divorces is the one who
gives you advice on men!
     But the sister who is working 2 jobs herself  is the one who makes cupcakes for your kids’ birthday party because you’ve been taking care of a sick baby all week.
     And the sister whose own life is so screwed up that she seems to be spinning in circles is your first and best lifeboat when you feel your own sanity circling the drain.

     Your sisters are the millstones around your neck and the wings at your back.
     They are the Gladys Kravitz’s of your life, always peering through the drapes, clucking their tongues,  gossiping and spreading rumors about you.
     They are also the superheros,  who will defend you even when you are wrong, love you even when you are hateful, and wait quietly on the porch to drive you home after your tearful break up with that stupid man  that they warned you never to get involved with in the first place.

     A sister can hurt you like no one else in the world and is the one you know you can always count on to make you feel better.

    Sisters come from the same place. They share much of the same stuff. They sat staring at their green beans through the same horrible fights  between your mom and dad, and they too wondered if somehow it wasn’t all their fault.
     They remember falling asleep to the sound of rain on the roof  of your grandparents’ summer cabin, with cousins sleeping like grubby, happy puppies all around, and how perfect and simple the world seemed then.
    They swore with you the same oath 30 years ago to never let mom find out how the window really got broken.

     A younger sister remembers when she thought you were the smartest, strongest,  most amazing person she knew. She watched in awe as you fought your battles,  knowing you were making things just a little easier for her when her time came.
      Your older sister still remembers when you were tiny and helpless
and momma let her hold you for a minute,  and made her promise to always keep you safe.

     Because, if she is your Gladys Kravitz,  your sister is also the Ethyl Mertz to your Lucy ricardo. She’ll get you into trouble and be the voice of reason to keep you out of it. She’ll laugh with you, and at you,
and listen to you even when you aren’t making any sense.
    And when the bon-bons are coming too fast down the conveyor belt in your life she’ll be right beside you, stuffing them into her mouth just as fast as she can.
     She will rat you out in a heart beat- and take your secret to her grave.

    My sisters are the best friends I will ever have,  probably because they know me better than anyone else ever will. Which is probably why I want, so frequently, to kill them and hide the bodies. They know every single button I have and how to push them,  just with the power of their own minds.

While I did not fully appreciate it growing up,  I thank my parents now for giving me so many sisters. In fact, I once apologized to my daughter for breaking the chain and giving her no sisters at all. But having often witnessed the family coven in all its gorey glory,  she just laughed and said “It’s ok mom- I’m kind of grateful for that!”

Sweetheart, there was a time when I too would have gladly traded  a few of my bossy, opinionated, domineering, controlling, beautiful, perfect, all-the-teachers-think-she’s-SO smart sisters for a room of my own.
     But I’ve had a few decades to look life and death, joy and sorrow,
loneliness and companionship square in the face, and I realize how important it is to know that someone has your back…
even if they might be giving you the finger while they’re back there.
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    No, I wouldn’t trade my crazy sisters for anything.