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Sa-Sa and Barfy

When I was fifteen, I started calling my sister Sa-Sa. She was twenty at the time, and in return I became Barfy.

Eleven years later, these nicknames still make fairly frequent appearances. I don't know why. It is the sort of strange and inexplicable reality of our sisterhood. It is the same reason I will sit on her unannounced or hug her tightly from behind, or swat her bum in passing. (She "hates" all these things, and tolerates me with the not-quite-endless patience that oldest siblings develop over the decades.)

Years ago, before she was officially dating her now-husband, I remember lying on my back stairs, talking to her on my landline (!) and processing the boy drama. I, of course, knew exactly how things SHOULD look when it comes to romance, and advised her accordingly. She commented at one point that it felt like she was the younger sister and I was the older one.

I have learned two things since then. One is that I am not half the relationship expert I thought I was. The other is that there is something unique and fantastic about the relationship between sisters. It is what it is, and while there is something common to all sister relationships, no two are the same.

I am incredibly grateful for my big sister. And I know that today, she is celebrating her birthday in style, on the beach in Florida, with her husband, our brother, his wife, and the two cutest children on the planet (who may be outshone by the arrival of roly-poly beige babies someday).

I love you, Sa-Sa!


Sent from my iPod
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