Portrait of my sister

Portrait of my sister, done on an iPad, using the Sketch Club app

I recently returned from visiting my little sister in Oregon. Texas is so far away from Oregon, so we don't see each other often enough. We always feel sad when we say good-bye. In addition, we have this: when I was 15, I could not stand living with our alcoholic mother anymore. So incapacitated by her alcoholism, she neglected us terribly. I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders. We went to visit my father, brother and step-mother that summer in Little Rock, Arkansas, so far from Indianapolis, where we lived with our mother. When it came time to return, I couldn't. I knew I would die if I went back home. I was trying to figure out how to commit suicide. I broke down. My little sister, 11 years old, got on an airplane and returned home, alone, sad, bereft. My absence did buy her something, tho. Our mother hired back our old babysitter. The woman who would fix popcorn and hot chocolate on cold winter days, who would listen to spelling words, take her to the library, play cards on a rainy day. In the summer, to the pool, and, once in awhile, she would take her out for ice cream, paid for out of her own poor pocket. Her presence saved my sister from despair. She had saved me from despair, until I was "old enough" to take care of my sister after school. But I wasn't old enough to lose the only nurturing adult in our little lives. Alas, living with my father and step-mother, I discovered that being there year-round was very different from visiting. They had covered up the extent of their drinking when we would visit. My step-mother had covered up her deep antipathy for my brother. They couldn't keep up the front year-round. Despair again. But, I had three good meals a day, and they took me to the doctor when I was sick -- so it was physically better than living with my mother. And my dear, sweet Southern Grandmother lived in Little Rock, too: the only adult in the family that I knew, for certain sure, loved me. Her presence in my life saved me. As an adult, I asked my sister to forgive me for abandoning her when she was 11. Now, she understands. But then, such emptiness and sadness. She forgives me, she loves me, but that undercurrent of sadness? I think at least a little bit is still there, never completely healed. And, I understand. That is why it is so painful to part, these 43 years later.


So, in writing this, am I wallowing?  That's a hard question.  I assume most people think of their childhoods, at least from time to time.  My husbands says once or twice a day.  But, he adds, such memories can increase seasonally.  On a family vacation, for example.  Or, I would add, around the holidays, a time full of memories.  If you had a pretty good childhood, with mostly good memories, what a blessing for you!  But, don't be judgmental of those who had a painful childhood when they reminisce. To take a line by William Faulkner quite out of context: "The past is never dead.  It's not even past."  But, I would add, it is just a memory, and life is different for us now.

---