‘This is going to be hard to tell’
She said in a lowered soft voice.
‘I’m going to try my best, to not rush the words so I can get it all over with. I need to let go of this pain…release it…like all those birds trapped in my ribcage, that I write about sometimes.’
She added. And her story began:
The last time I saw my sister, was 22 years ago. I was 23.
The time I saw her before that, was when I was 17.
Even long before I ran away from our parents’ house, at the age of 17, my sister and I had this dynamic growing up: The giver and the taker.
I was constantly hungry for her attention. For her love. She was always busy, with someone ‘older’, and more…important.
She gave me attention when she needed to borrow something pretty I had. From a young age, I designed my own clothes, and our mother, used to take my designs to a talented seamstress, who would turn them into reality.
My sister, lacked that kind of creativity. She used to look at the outfits, and would then ask to borrow them. I always agreed. I was the giver. This dynamic never stopped.
My sister was the popular one among all the friends and relatives of our family.
Every now and then, a new boyfriend would be joining us for dinner. My eyes admired that. She had her way of convincing our parents of anything.
I was 6 years younger. The shy one. The sheltered one. The overly sensitive. The…aloof.
Growing up, I used to wait for her to visit. She was studying abroad. And for all those 6 years from when I was 12, I missed her terribly.
September was the month I dreaded the most. There I was, on our big veranda, standing there alone, among the yellowing leaves swirling all around me in that gutsy Mediterranean wind we used to experience in the fall.
The house that used to be full of life and people. Is now empty. The only ones remaining…my parents…and I.