Today my dad sent me the song he and my little sister are dancing to at her wedding next month. I cried so hard in my bathtub after I played it that snot came out of my nose. Sup fellas?
I wasn’t crying because I’m sad that she’s getting married first or anything ridiculous like that, I was crying because it was such a strong reminder that we aren’t kids anymore and never will be again.
I wanted to go back for one day and be playing skip-it in the driveway with her. To be sitting in the parked car pretending we were driving our dolls to Louisiana while using ballpoint pens as cigarettes. It’s a miracle our fake babies didn’t die because we were always smoking Ballpoint cigs on those fake road trips. WITH THE WINDOWS UP. We didn’t give a fuck. My parents didn’t drink or smoke when we were growing up, by the way, we were just a pair of rebels in that minivan parked in the driveway.
She used to follow me everywhere. I was her bossy, loud big sister — always cooking up schemes, trying to put on plays, writing newspapers that no one read, holding fake court sessions in the living room — you name it — and she was my quiet, little sister who just went with the flow letting Meg be Meg.
I missed the way it felt to be so tired from playing outside all day that we’d pass out on the couch after dinner and a bath and sleep like rocks until morning. It was before we knew what it felt like to be hurt by someone we cared about or stress out about paying our bills.
I wish I was more like my sister. She’s better at walking away from bad people and does so without popping off 20 times before she drops it. She thinks before she speaks and acts and she only sees a therapist because she spends her life working with people dying from cancer.
To say I’m proud of who she is would be an understatement. I’m just lucky we share some of the same DNA so that maybe one day I can be half as fab as she is.