My Sister
by: Samantha Fomera
I
remember that day like it was yesterday.
Tears streamed down my face as I watched her go. Her long brown hair draped down her back swishing
with every step. I remember exactly what
she was wearing. It was the purple shirt
and black sweater that we bought on our latest girls’ day out. The dark jeans were well-known to her style. Not to mention her black flats with a bow on
each shoe. I watched her as she got
ready that evening. She didn’t say a
word the entire time. Mom tried to talk
her out of leaving, but it was unsuccessful.
Mom was angry at her decision, but stopping her was nearly impossible by
this point. She took nothing but her
heavy purse and walked out the front door, leaving myself and Mom on the
doorstep. She never looked back, but
continued on her way. She faded into the
dark night. The porch light caused my
vision to be distorted, but I knew she was gone. Gone where?
I didn’t know.
I
remember growing up, she was my big sister.
On warm, sunny days, she would take me to the park if I promised to be
really good. There was a vibrant red swing
set. It was my favorite thing to play on
as a child. She would always let me
swing first. I was too short to touch
the ground, so she would push me. With
each push, I grew further and further away from the ground. I felt strong. I felt like I could do anything. I think that’s what sisters do, you
know. They help you to become your best
and go further than you’ve ever imagined.
Of course, there were other
times when she didn’t always live up to that sisterly role. Sure, there was the little stuff. Since she was older, she had the advantage
with mom. She would blame things on me,
like the time that black ink stained the carpet. She was showing me how to write with a
feather ink pen. I was finally able to
write letters, rather than blobs. She
had reached over the table to look at how I was progressing, but upon returning
to her own chair, her sweater caught the ink and it spilled all over the light
beige carpet that clothed the dining room floor. When our mom came home, my sister told her
that I had knocked the ink off the table in frustration that I wasn’t doing at
good as I wanted to be doing.
As we got older, nothing really
changed, although the bad times got worse.
I’m sure my sister never realized it at all. But I felt like her maid servant. I was there at her every beckon and did
whatever she wanted. I knew her judgment
was best anyway. Nothing I had was truly
mine. You know sisters; they share
everything. I understood that if she
wanted something, she needed it more than I did. She was, in fact, the older sister. I would drive her places too, or bring her
lunch, even if I had to go out of my way to do it. I never wanted to say “no” to her.
In high school, I was always
made fun of for wearing turtlenecks.
Apparently they weren’t in style anymore. Teachers became concerned when
I wore them, especially on warm, sunny days.
I just wanted to make sure that everything was covered according to Mom’s
standards. I had to go to the school
guidance counselor on one occasion.
The counselor wanted me to talk
about my home life. I told her that I
was the younger of two sisters. My dad had
left my mom when I was little, though I had heard from my big sister that mom forced
him out of the house. My mom worked two jobs to keep us going. So, I had to clean the house, make dinners,
and take care of whatever else needed to be done while she was gone during the
day. That’s all, ma’am. She pressed further, but I didn’t have
anything else I wanted to say. I asked
if I could go back to class. Thankfully,
she said yes. That was the last time she
asked me to come in to see her. On the way out, I heard her tell the principal
to watch me closely, but that I just had a busy home life and it wasn’t
anything to be concerned with. If only
they knew the whole story.
I remember the weight of the
hand that was heavy on my shoulder as my sister walked out of our lives that chilly
night. The long, bony fingers had
squeezed my shoulder blade. I had
thought about wincing in pain, but opted not to do so for fear of what might
come later in the night. Her hands were
rough like sandpaper. Her long nails
always painted an ugly red color.
She was right to leave us. My sister knew the way out. Perhaps someday, I’d learn too.
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