The value of a sister is often lost in the daily struggles of actually having a sister. In between all the unauthorized borrowing of clothes and “accidental” hair pulling, not everyone really reflects on the positives of sisterhood. I myself have succumbed to this in my first few months away from home. My oldest sister, eight years my senior, had left home years ago by the time I was leaving for college. When I first left the presence of my youngest sister, eight years younger, I spent my first few weeks relishing in the freedom of it all. I no longer had a five foot intruder constantly barging into my room to steal my identity, and my favorite lipstick stopped “mysteriously” disappearing. For the first time since second grade, my shadow was my own.
However, when the novelty of independence wore off, I found myself missing my mini-me. Like a constant itch you can’t scratch, she was annoying and persistent, but I found I preferred the itch over an entire lack of sensation. On top of this, the weeks that passed between seeing my older sister back home turned to months. It was my duty as her Unscratchable Itch to miss her incessantly. I craved our shared eye rolls and inside jokes communicated with just a smirk across the dinner table.
Despite how much I valued my new abundant alone time, the emptiness in my life that was once filled by my sisters ached especially hard on certain days, such as when my older sister moved to South Korea for a job opportunity, or when I missed my younger’s first birthday in ten years. Just this past week I traveled back home to surprise the two with a visit when I realized just how much I missed their company.
Growing up with an older sister was everything I could have wanted as a little girl. She was my idol and the first to advise me on life’s lady woes, always one step ahead of my parents with everything personal. From sharing her bed just for the sake of it to teaching me how to drive, my eldest sister was always somewhat of an untouchable hero to me. As a child, no one was prettier nor as funny as she, and I aspired to be just like her every day.
My younger sister was a different story, though likely one that my older one can relate to. From one of the very first times I held her (and she promptly grabbed a fist full of my hair) she and I have been joined at the hip – against my own preferences, of course. Though I desired to be exactly like my older sister, I never dreamed of it being irritating until it became my reality. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery but can you please take off my bra, for God’s sake you’re a third grader! She may be an identity thief, but as I’ve grown older, I recognize the admiration in her eyes and I can’t help but feel pride swell above annoyance every time she reaches a milestone.
Sisters are some sort of magic, I think. I’ve never heard of any sort of person that manages to be so conflicting and so lovable all at once. Simultaneously my mortal enemy and top ally in house arguments, my number one confidant and the spiller of all my secrets, the first person I’d want to share a bed with on vacations and the last person I’d trust with my diary.
In being a sister myself, and a middle one at that, I have had the great privilege of being a walking contradiction. I’m a teacher and a student, a leader and a follower, a mentor and a mentee. But most importantly, I am a best friend without a doubt. Despite the nuisances I know they are, and the freedom from them I craved for years, I can’t imagine experiencing all of my intimacies with anyone else.
