January's September

We sat in warmth, under the fluorescent lights in the breakfast nook of her surburban home. Somehow, it felt unseasonably cold, and dim. Her emotions clouded and weighed the openness in our immediate area. She spoke, and as my eyes moved from her eyes, to cheeks, to mouth, and back toward her eyes, I could clearly see how age and despair would diminish the youth of her skin. She, two years my junior, had allowed the years of her troubled relationship to contribute to wrinkles here and there which caused her to appear older than me. Out of co-dependency, and that sibling connection we shared, the saline in her tears created a thirst I could not seem to quench in that moment. Despite the fact that I had finished my third glass of water, I found myself making my way back to the fridge to perhaps find that final glass which would bring me a glimpse of relief. I knew it was futile, as the relief would only come from an answer which had eluded us since that fateful day in September. The very first time I heard, ".... your sister is all you have. Take care of her. Your mother would want you to take care of each other." September would be the month of significant losses. Four of our five village matrons were lost and buried. September has never really been a good year.

She believed this was to be the prime of her life. Had that home. Had that job. Had those children. Instead, she grappled with the mundanely tragic reality she'd created, all in the name of family. She believed that she had done the "right thing" and that somehow he would see that. That they were made for each other. Everything was so complimentary, even their occupations. That if she lived the right way. Said the right things. Exhibited the right behaviors. That somehow the veil of hypocrisy would dissipate, and that he would see her in a new light. That he would see her growth. I, on the other hand, saw that desperate little girl. The one whom I protected because she would cry if the wind blowed too strongly. The one who's voice was often heard thru mine. The one who's popularity and identity came from being my younger sister. She was all I had. Or so my great grand instilled in us. So I did what I could do until she was strong enough... But this evening as I sit at her table, I realized that she would never be strong enough, and neither would I. We would never be strong enough to face the irony in our reality.

She had children, lived that life, in an effort to ward off the demons, and I, well I rebelled in an effort to forget. And as she spoke, with each word, the bite of her realization stung my core. I had faced my issues, and was okay with the ineffectually, effective manner in which I lived. She, on the other hand, was now reaching her bottom. And no matter how much I wanted to protect her. How much I wanted to hold her hand thru this. No matter how difficult it was for me to swallow the rancidity of her now realized truth, I had to swallow, move forward and wait. Patiently. Having faith that when she was ready, and truly needed my help, she would ask. She was not all I had, anymore than I was all she had. Yet there was truth in my great grand's words. We are the blood, the flesh, the essence of my mother. Like her, we have our demons. Unlike her, we do not have to succumb to them. Yet we continue to follow her path as it relates to love. We love much too hard, much to tightly, with too much passion. Sometimes unable to define ourselves and often losing ourselves in the process.

As she cried, I could see attempts to garner strength to move forward. There were occasional sparks in the brown of her eyes that gave me hope that perhaps she was ready to embark upon her journey. And while, I recognize that my true journey does not have a destination, I pray that her's will lead her to a place where she can find peace and begin a new. And that perhaps as we enter this year's September, there will be a cause to celebrate...