Disclaimer: I don’t have a sister. Many of the pieces of writing I share on Fridays are written in the first person POV, but don’t (please, please don’t) assume they are in any way autobiographical. I assure you, I will tell you if they are. I just happen to write a lot in first person. It’s simply what I’m most comfortable with, for whatever reason.
So, without further ado, here’s this week’s bit of non-autobiographical nonsense.
As I got up from my desk to stretch and straightened the front of my blazer, I suddenly saw myself as a thirteen-year-old, looking down at the unfamiliar new shape of my chest in a bright yellow tee shirt. Funny, I can’t remember now if the shirt was mine or my sister’s.
Two years older than me, she seemed so grown up, so poised. Everything stayed in place, and she never stained her clothes or knocked things over with surprising elbows. I was always “borrowing” things from her, although I knew it meant facing her inevitable wrath later. She wanted to keep everything separate, but the more she shut the doors between us, the more I tried to break them down.
I wanted so desperately to be close to her, so I wore her clothes. My child’s brain somehow believed that if I wrapped myself in her, I could pull out some of her essence and hold it for myself. That if I could take on her garments, I could also take on her grace.
When I visit my sister now, fifteen years later, I still find myself wanting to run straight to her closet. Sometimes, I do.