Having a younger sibling sometimes brings out the grown-up in me. It did so - even when I was a kid. One of my sisters is two years younger than me. We shared a room for most of our childhood and I remember feeling sort of responsible for her. Maybe that was our parents’ intention, instilling it in me with their continuous warnings: “Look after your sister.”
Decades ago, when some bully of a thirteen-year-old wanted to beat her up, I stepped in (with my WORDS!) to prevent the altercation. I couldn’t let anyone hurt her. This was no ordinary feat - I am not what you would call, intimidating.
Later, when she suffered a tragic loss as a seventeen year-old, I felt responsible for her recovery, her survival. She may not have known it, but that sensation guided my every move around her.
Consciously or not, I relinquished a great deal of this innate sibling duty once I had my own kids to take care of and worry about; kids to be a grown-up for. But as time pranced on, I never stopped considering her subway rides late at night, her doorman-less building and then later, her pregnancy.
So now my little sister (who is taller than me) just moved to Rome with her new baby (Olivia JOY!) and her new husband. I’m happy for my Italian-fluent sister and her new family. But I still feel a nagging concern for her, an un-measurable uneasiness that wends its way through my days.
Maybe being a “big” sister is something like being a parent: you will always worry (that’s what they say and I believe it). I wonder if my older sister worries about me!
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