On age

I realized some things last night over tables dressed in spotless linen, under cast spells of candle light. Sitting across from my sister, my difficult, brilliant sister, the closest being to me in flesh and mind- I realized that I am a young woman. I do not think I had fully understood the magnificent power of being a woman- tall and confident- smart and strong. I saw my sister be poised, concerned, intrigued, supportive, loving, and amazed by me. Its not only me as her little sister, it is us- grown up. I mean not to sound arrogant- but my beauty astounded even me in the night past. I saw people look at me, wide eyed with any entrance I took. I have never felt that or that I was a very beautiful, aesthetically, person until very recently. I would look in the mirror, search for any sign of maturity or elegance and come up short only able to recognize my slightly crooked lip, enlarged from an incident of a childhood lived rough. Perhaps it is how we care for ourselves that makes it possible- perhaps it is feeling an intense beauty from within, the potential for love, or perhaps just with age...

Nonetheless, now, my sister and I, accompanied by her husband, we are all adult, weather we like to face it or not. The responsibility that comes with that is not only material but emotional. Adult is being cautious to keep things full of love to their utmost potential. We sat facing mirrors of each other doubts, hopes and fears. We can be toxic or charming but are always intense. We deftly explore each crevice of hidden thoughts, seemingly only we can extricate from each other.

We dined last night like debutant's. It was her 8 and me 4 again in our basement wonderland of imagination costumed by mothers fancy cast off cloths. In formal attire, lovingly touched with expensive perfumes- with great posture and stance- we sat for four hours over courses of gourmet delicacy. They wanted to take me before I left, for a dinner to celebrate the birthday and holidays we will miss due to my absence. Throughout our night of opulence- with, I hope, maturity and tact- we accessed dark parts of our sometimes tumultuous relationship, and evaluated concerns we have for each others well being and well development. We dissected and discussed to refigure them with great care. By evenings end, light lucidity fueled by the deep juice of aging zinfandel grapes walked with stretched skin, full bellies, warm hearts and tickled minds through the quiet of an elderly august night.

It was charming and sweet.

But it did make me think of time spent- how the hours are occupied, how they will be. And to be strong and appreciative is something to grasp! It used to be a terrifying thought to me that I am growing older and have to take care for myself. It seemed (as most things do to an extremist) that this occurrence would be overwhelmingly abrupt, and rob my soul of some innocence or possibility. I learn now that it is a slow strange processed littered with complication and doubt. But veiled behind weighted conversation were lingering pleasantries that surround all this growing up stuff. It reminded me of the fun that we have had, of how Emily is, and will always be to me, the one who drew pictures of forbidden things on the chalkboard in our basement to explain words and phrases I should not have known. The one who begrudgingly had me tag along like an orphaned puppy to play with her and her friends- although the game became a toy story of sorts, my role to be a lifeless doll when in the same room; The one who cut out chunks of my hair, ripped holes in my jeans and threw curses through thick oak doors. Emily, more intense than you could imagine- pinned me down at one point of my youth and cracked all my knuckles because its what she liked to do. Oh and than there were times we would make silly videos, and make fun of our mom- or drive her to the ends of insanity- jumping out of moving cars- drive her to madness that shattered glass tables in kitchens in houses we ripped apart. We shared rooms and shared lives in several abodes, amidst constant construction, disaster, and strife, we were given the chance to fancifully decorate however we choose. We stole weed from our parents when I was a snoop- snuck into the garage and without knowledge of proportion smoked an entire 8th together for both our first experience of getting high. Promptly of course, we crushed gallons of ice cream while held captive by each others oddities. She has held me so tight, and been by my side, when times were just terrible and I wanted to die. Her and her husband have crept into Murphy beds that contained a hysterical hopeless version of myself and not left until my eyes ran dry. They have reminded me of why it is funny when an old lady falls down in the street. And she got me drunk the first time- hiding vodka in the depths of a sacrine cherry Slurpee disguised as a gift. Oh days I could go on of how silly and strange a sister can be, how silly and strange it is to be a sister. But it always comes down to the best little tale- which defines me and Emily down to the skeleton of our relationship. We fought about nothing on hot summers eve- slowly escalating the level of voice- surely adding condescension and cutting words- to the point of insanity. I was shaken with rage- an anger I did not know lived inside of me- and I grabbed my knees close to my chest and rocked back and forth to get out of the space in which that hate existed. For a short while there was quiet. But of course, an ever impatient Emily, concerned only with going to sleep angry at the possibility wake would never reach to resolve animosity and restate love, minutes later spoke with a quiet quivering voice. She lovingly and a bit pathetically said through the wall that separated our teenage rooms, "Doonie.... I think your a beautiful person." and not that it wasn't heartfelt, I know that she meant it with every ounce of her heart, but we both started laughing so hard that we cried, and we slept in the same bed at each others side. Its now but one bullet loaded in the revolver of quips and vignettes of shared lives lived that her husband and I shoot in jest at her fragile spirit. 'I think your a beautiful person.' In retrospect it seems much like something my mother would say now. However it came to be, it is what states our bond best- so that at her wedding, as maid of honor I ended with re-telling them both I thought they were beautiful people. The random chuckles around the room of people who know the story was all i wanted. It was neat.