A Birthday Wish for My Sister

A while back, I was doing something completely ordinary—scrolling online one evening—when I unexpectedly came across my sister Celeste being interviewed on Mormon Stories.

I hadn't known she had done it.

There is something uniquely strange about accidentally stumbling across hours of your own sister talking about her life on the internet. That was not where I expected my scrolling to take me that night.

I watched.

And somewhere in the process, I realized something about this blog that I hadn't completely understood when I started it.

I think I was building a bridge.

I just hadn't realized Celeste had stepped away from that bridge years before I even knew I was trying to build one.

Today is my birthday. And birthdays are supposed to be the one day when you're allowed to say what you want.

So this is what I want.

My sister Celeste and I

Dear Celeste,

I remember us sitting

in those little children's chairs

at the table that was practically on the floor,

coloring together on a rainy day.

My coloring buddy.

I promise this was affection, not strangulation. I realize the photograph has chosen not to support my version of events.

I don't know why

that particular memory stayed.

Nothing extraordinary happened.

We colored.

That's it.

But apparently my brain looked

at that ordinary little afternoon

and decided,

Yes. We're keeping this one.

I remember Barbies.

I remember pretend play

and whatever worlds we invented

because apparently actual life

wasn't providing enough plot.

And I remember being your older sister.

Not just having a little sister.

Being one.

I had one job. Celeste appears unconvinced I was qualified for it.

I remember the day

that woman from our ward called

when we were home alone.

She knew we were there by ourselves,

and something about it

didn't feel right to me.

So I did what any completely qualified child

responsible for another child would do:

I pretended to be Mom.

I don't remember believing

I was particularly convincing.

I just knew one thing.

You were my little sister.

And nobody was going to get to you

without going through me first.

Back when the distance between us was approximately zero inches.

That's the part

that is hard to explain now.

Somewhere along the way,

I stopped being able to protect you.

Maybe there were things

you never needed me

to protect you from.

Maybe there were things

I didn't see.

Maybe there were things happening inside you

that an older sister couldn't fix

by picking up a telephone

and pretending to be an adult.

Growing up is extremely inconvenient

that way.

When I unexpectedly found you online

that night,

I recognized you immediately.

Of course I did.

Your voice.

Your expressions.

Your laugh.

All those little things

a sister knows

without realizing she knows them.

And yet I was listening

to parts of your life

as though I were being introduced to you.

I think that was when

something finally became clear to me.

I had started this blog

thinking I wanted somewhere

to put our stories.

The things I remember.

The things that still make me laugh.

The things that happened to us

before either of us knew enough

to understand that ordinary days

eventually become the days

you would give almost anything

to visit again.

But underneath all of that,

I think I wanted you.

I wanted to build a bridge

back to my sister.

The painful part

was realizing I had shown up

with my lumber

a little late.

You had left the bridge

years ago.

I don't say that angrily.

And I don't know

what the bridge looked like

from your side.

I only know

what it looked like

from mine.

I don't expect us

to become the little girls

at the coloring table again.

I don't expect a birthday

to magically repair years.

Birthdays aren't that powerful.

And I don't need you

to become a version of yourself

that agrees with me

about everything.

I don't want some imaginary version

of our relationship

where nothing difficult

ever happened.

I want you.

My sister

as she is now.

And I want you to know

that I'm still here.

Maybe being your older sister

doesn't mean protecting you anymore.

Maybe it means accepting

that you don't need me

standing in front of you.

Maybe now it means

standing on my side of the bridge

without demanding

that you cross it.

But leaving the light on.

Keeping the boards from rotting.

Making sure there is still a way across

if someday

we both decide we're ready to walk.

Because today is my birthday.

And I could make a list

of things I want.

I have been alive long enough

to become quite good

at wanting things.

But there is one thing

I can't buy for myself.

I want my sister

back in my life.

Not all at once.

Not with every hurt explained

and every difference resolved.

I'd settle for one step.

And I'll take one too.

Cool older sister status: self-appointed, naturally.

Because underneath everything

that has happened

since those rainy afternoons,

there is still a little girl

sitting beside me

at a tiny table

with crayons scattered between us.

My coloring buddy.

My little sister.

Celeste.

And I still love her.

That's my birthday wish.

Not that we rebuild

what we had.

That we build

what comes next.

Although, for the record,

I still think being the older sister

means I get to supervise construction.