Sisters – From Scourge to Sentinel

If my story can save just one life...

My previous entries have already established that my older sisters were two of the biggest tormentors of my childhood years and often the bane of my existence. Had you told me when I was seven (and Mom quite likely did) that my sisters would become two of my best friends, I would have scoffed for days. How could these two people, who then caused me so much sibling suffering, ever be my willing confidantes? But of course that’s exactly what happened. 

Oh, I saw signs of it even back then. When an older boy pushed me into a busy street (busy by small town standards, which means not really that busy at all) I cried to Cheryl, who then traveled to his house, knocked on his door and promptly punched him in the nose. When she followed up with “That’s for my baby sister!” he protested, “But I don’t even know your sister!” It turned out the pushing perpetrator was actually his brother, who still lived at home with their parents. 

Oops!

On another occasion that I sometimes think of as Slapocalypse ‘79 (although I’m kind of muddy on the dates now) I was involved in a verbal altercation with a neighborhood friend who was about two years older than I. Her closing argument came in the form of a slap to my face, and Kenna immediately and instinctively returned the infraction. This earned Kenna a slap in the face from the girl’s older sister (who was Kenna’s age and one of her closest friends.) It was a retaliatory wallop-fest of epic proportion.

The Music of a Year

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes. How do you measure, measure a year?

Twelve months. Fifty-two weeks. Three hundred sixty-five days. That’s how long it’s been since my sister took her last breath. When I placed my cell phone next to me that night, I knew it was going to ring before my alarm sounded the following morning.

Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world. She took the midnight train going anywhere.

It was 3:34 AM. I knew without looking who was calling and the tears started to fall before I said hello. I fervently wished I had changed my ring tone to something other than “Don’t Stop Believing” because I knew in that moment I had to stop believing that somehow a miracle would come through and my sister would live.