My sister’s sweatshirt

IMG_0116She walks down the hallway with her headphones in and music turned up to tune out the chaos around her. She claims that her homework is done when the only writing on the paper is the word “done.” She sleeps with her door unlocked because she believes Jesus will come and take her shopping. She smoothly walks into a room with such presence that makes you want to ask what her problem is. Her eyes could stab you if you stare too long and her words could kill you with hilarity. But there’s only one thing you should know; in your lifetime you will never get to meet someone so hysterical yet so wicked.

On Aug. 15, 1998, my sister Andrea was born. What I didn’t know was that we would come to hate each other in a way that was detectable through our thin walls. It came to a point where I ended up with a broken heart because I tried too hard for her to like me. Two years apart felt like two eternities in dog years. Love and hate was spread across our barriers every day. From her taking my clothes to me taking her make up.

I hated myself for trying to make her like me. As a big sister, it’s supposed to be the other way around but I grew up too quickly and she stayed young too long and I guess I envied that. I started noticing how difficult yet amazing our relationship was when I got my heart broken by a boy and she came into my room with her favorite sweatshirt that I was never allowed to borrow and she said, “Yo, you can wear my sweatshirt tomorrow…Just don’t tell people we’re related. I don’t want people liking you.”

I laughed and cried because I know how hard she tried to make me feel better. LittIe did she know I heard her pacing outside my door for at least five minutes before she walked in. She walked out and I cried because for the first time in forever I felt like she was there, not just there in our house but there next to me.

The next day I wore the sweatshirt to school and walked honored in it. I saw her looking at me with mighty eyes and I felt scared. She walked up to me and said, “You betta’ not get this sweatshirt dirty doe. Or you about to get whooped.” That day I learned that she not only would always be my friend but will always be my sister.

Our love is not the kind of sisterly-love you see in the movies; we don’t fix each other’s hair or paint each other’s nails. We walk into each other’s rooms and make each other laugh because that is what we need. That is what I need, and she’s the only one who can offer it. She is not herself because of me, yet I am myself because of her. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.

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