sisters

Today I found this photo of me and my sister in my dad's digital family album. It captures the essence of the word sisters for me.

It is 1981 and we are living in Boulder, Colorado, in the biggest and coldest house we've ever lived in. It has three floors and a cavernous basement. Our parents don't have enough furniture to fill it and can barely afford to heat it.

My sister is wading deeper into the choppy waters of adolescence. She lines her eyes with thick, black eyeliner and shuts herself in her room to daydream and listen to records. I am in the second grade. In spite of our age difference, we still play Barbies and Office. Though we argue and torment each other as siblings do, we are close. We get up early Saturday mornings to watch cartoons, tucked beneath my grandmother's afghan. We are rumpled from sleep. My sister twists her body sideways to make room for me on the couch.

It amazes me how close we are, in spite of the fact that we we are five years apart and have spent most of our lives living in different states. Still, we grew up together from scratch. We've witnessed each other's journeys. In spite of time and distance, this is how it always is between us.