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Time pulls taut a closeness that now wraps two sisters in love
© St. Petersburg Times My sister and I look nothing alike. She's eight years older. I'm four inches taller. She's brown-haired. I'm blond. She's chronically well-organized. I'm always searching for my keys, my handbag, my glasses. She married early. I married late. There were years when we hardly spoke to each other, except for the conversational rituals involved in Christmas and other holidays, and a funeral or two. During those years, we were each too immersed in the strains of our working lives and our private lives to make room for one another. We were sisters in the technical sense, blood-bound, but in fact we were so remote we could have passed for two strangers sharing a seat on a bus. Time takes you in unexpected directions. Your perspective shifts. You either grow or you die. What looked like an impassable rift between the two of us became, finally, navigable. This is what happened between my sister and me. She flew down for a visit this past weekend. We were able to connect again. We talked about what sisters talk about. We talked about the multiple lumps married love can hand you. We offered up stories about amazing things our children had said, to prove just how brilliant they were. We went window shopping at Lord & Taylor and at Nordstrom, debated what colors flattered us, and analyzed the style and cut of suits and dresses that we were never going to buy. We compared notes about our growing up, the good and the bad, the wise and the painful, that our parents passed down and that helped shape who we are. If there is a greater gift than this -- this chance to share, to hear and to be heard without judgment or pretense -- I don't know of it. In all the years that we were separated, I imagined we had simply grown apart, that no matter the legacy of the years, we had nothing in common. How wrong I was. Genetics must have something to do with it: We have discovered that we ended up buying the same style furniture, even basically the same dining room china. Her best is a plain plate elegantly rimmed in a jewel tone of green. Mine is a plain plate elegantly rimmed in a jewel tone of blue. Over the years of our silences, my sister and I did not fight much. Like many people, we did not learn how necessary arguing is to loving. We grew up not knowing the words that can communicate disagreement in a way that does not destroy love. None of those old arguments, real but unspoken, surfaced during our visit. I want to think this is because we have each silently forgiven the other. Or, better yet, forgotten the petty details. My sister -- her name is Ann -- had really always been my teacher. She opened my eyes to F. Scott Fitzgerald. She took me on my first train ride to New York City. She introduced me to French. She was my idea of sophistication, even down to what she drank. When I was clumsy and 20 and out on a date and without an idea of what to order, I always asked for a Dewar's. That's what she did. Now I look at her and see a survivor of middle age's biggest tests, over love and work, hope and disappointment. I see her as someone who has turned deep losses into triumphs. Her spirit has never been broken by the struggles she's had to wage. I remember as a kid wishing, as only kids can when looking up to an older sibling, wanting so much to be like her. By the end of our long weekend, I was acting the kid again. We were at the airport, saying goodbyes. I hugged her hard, hoping that some of her strength would pass through me, so I too could be transformed and made ready for whatever the rest of life brings. -- You can reach Mary Jo Melone at mjmelone@sptimes.com or (813) 226-3402.
 © 2006 • All Rights Reserved • St. Petersburg Times
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Times columns today Mary Jo Melone Gary Shelton From the Times Metro desk |
