sister sister.
There is an old photo that I keep of me and my sister. I’ve carried the picture around for years, tacking it to various fridges I have as I move from home to home, city to city, state to state. It’s slightly faded and discolored from age and exposure. She is a newborn, wrapped tightly, sleeping, her squishy baby nose and cheeks pressed against the blanket that swaddles her. I’m eight years old in the photo, my bedhead hair and face still showing the signs of sleep, my legs hardly touching the floor from the chair I sit in. I’m holding my sister in my arms, looking down at her head on my chest and kissing her tiny newborn nose.
My mom loves to recount mornings like this one in the early days after Francesca was born. As she tells it, my mom would wake up and look over to discover that her baby was no longer in the bassinet beside her. After a brief investigation, my mom would find that I had come into her bedroom early in the morning to scoop my sister up and take her to the TV room where I held her as I contently watched my morning cartoons. It felt like Christmas morning every day. This picture is a product of such a morning.
As an only child for eight years I had desperately wanted a little brother or sister. By the time Francesca was on her way I was beside myself with excitement. In my child brain it was as if Francesca was mine and she was arriving for me. Sure there were many years that sentiment became laughable; I realize that now as an adult. But in a lot of ways, Francesca did arrive for me.
Growing up my parents, and pretty much every adult in my radius, would remind me to be a good role model for my sister, that she looked up to me, and that I had to behave and set good examples for her. This sentiment began to erode my patience and then my affection for my sister. But more importantly, it assumed that my sister couldn't have the wherewithal to become a fully functioning and capable human on her own. Francesca has always beat to the rhythm of her own drum. The truth is, as I first said at my sister’s highschool graduation dinner, while I was always told to behave a certain way because my sister was looking up to me, she didn't need anyone telling her what to do and she became the one that I look up to.
In fact, many times in recent years she's become the protective older sister I always needed. When I moved out of the home and town I shared with my ex husband for 16 years, my sister flew halfway across the country to help me move, driving my car and following me in a Uhaul to a new town and new life. That day she stayed on the phone with me the entire two-hour drive silently listening while I sobbed. Many years earlier, she once looked over at me while we were on a Disneyland ride, knowing I was afraid of heights, and reached out to hold my hand and comfort me. When our dad verbally doubted me and didn't support me when I signed up for my first marathon, Francesca fiercely defended me. And when I did train and run that first marathon, my sister was the only one who demanded to be there, and was there, to see me and celebrate me crossing the finish line. I joke now that the people I date don't have to worry about pleasing my parents; it’s my sister’s approval he has to earn. And her standards for her sister are quite high.
I love this photo for its irony. I’d wanted a baby sister to have and hold and nurture, to be mine. In the decades since that photo was taken, I’ve learned a valuable truth that Francesca was the one holding me, protecting me, saving me.
