We once stopped speaking for three years – my sister and I. I had left home when I was 18 and she had not too long turned 14 years old. I headed to New York for college and I can’t say I never looked back at her and my two brothers. I called every weekend and I wrote letters and sent postcards. Soon one year turned into ten years but I would see my sister and the rest of the family every Christmas. I never missed a Christmas we would have great times, especially she and I. I would flat iron her naturally curly hair and we would head to the mall or the movies or go shopping and of course by the time I left, my suitcase would be half empty and I would either give her or she would claim my clothes as we were near the same size. But when I decided to return home after 10 years away so that I could further my education at one of the best faculty departments in my field, I did not feel that Christmas sisterly love I always felt. It was the middle of summer for one, but after three weeks of being home, I think the novelty of me wore off and little sister resented me in her space, for being there and most importantly and unbeknownst to me, for leaving. Apparently I was living a “luxurious” life in NYC while she had to maneuver adolescence, school, our parents, boyfriends and then adulthood by herself. While having three jobs in NYC to pay rent and bills while going to school was by no means luxurious living, I understood where she was coming from but could not comprehend this resentment and what felt like hatred towards me. I understood that being there for one another was the key to sisterhood. Isn’t that why we have sisters, be they biological or not – to not just flat iron each other’s hair and go shopping, but to be there for each other, to walk each other through that terrible class, that trifling boyfriend, that family situation; to listen, be vulnerable and be unapologetically themselves, to stand in the gap, share secrets, desires, those embarrassing moments and most importantly love each other. But just as sisters can love, they can also fight and they can fight hard because they know that to say and what to do to hurt you the deepest.

By week three, I was being passed straight in the hallway, she would not let me pass by her in the kitchen and would try to start verbal fights. She knew how to provoke me and did it very well. Soon, tired, hurt and disappointed, I began to ‘hide out’ in my room. I would peep out my door and when the coast was clear I would grab some food, water and do what I needed to do before quickly retreating into my room. I must admit that as things worsened between us (against the wishes and sheer confusion of our parents), I also hardened towards her and regarded her as persona non-grata as well – two strangers with the same blood running through our veins sharing the same space but with no words or glances to each other. She had needed me when I was in NY and now I was back and she didn’t want me at all. It hurt. While I could rely on our youngest brother as a support, I missed my sister and many times I caught myself trying to figure out how in pursuing my dreams, I was regarded as selfish and privileged by her. But no one knew of my life in NY and even in time away, I never forgot my family. I had never forgotten her.

Two years of living like this and she would be the one to leave – to start a new job in another country. She needed money to go and so I took a small bank loan and gave the money to my mother to give to her. Up to today, four years later, she doesn’t know it was me who got the money for her. The morning she left she knocked on the door or my room, peeped her head in and said that she was leaving. I wished her a safe flight. It was the most we had said to each other in two years. To be honest, when she left it felt as if a huge burden had been dropped from my shoulders. My house, the house that we had grown up in felt more accessible and welcoming. I could move around without fear of running into her, I could watch the tv without a confrontation. (But this time it was too late however because I was so conditioned to being in my room, that I still mostly stayed there). She and I never spoke after that but I heard that she was enjoying her new job and would be home in a few months for a visit. I stayed clear of her during these visits. A year later as I sat in my room in Caracas, Venezuela, I imagined that she was most likely doing the same in her room on the other side of the world. Impulsively, I messaged our younger brother and asked if he give me her number but let her know that I had asked for it. Within minutes he replied that she had said that it was ok for me to message. I took a breath and messaged her “Hello” – the first words we had spoken to each other since she had said her brief goodbye a year and half before. Thirty minutes later we had already made plans to travel to meet each other. Three months later we met up and she ran to hug me and carried on like the past three years did not happen. Two years later after a bad breakup, she came immediately to see me in NY. Heartbroken and depressed, I spent two days lying next to her on the bed in her hotel room. On the second day as I got up to look at the city below me through the window, I noticed a napkin with writing on it on the table next to me. My sister had written to me. The note said, “I am my sister’s keeper and she is mine.” I held the napkin in my hand and to this day I walk around with it in my wallet. Maybe this is what sisterhood is. I am not sure. But after the pain and most times indifference of those three years I can say that I love my sister. My sister is my keeper and I am hers.

Aleah

Image Source: Stephanie Bertram-Rose and Jasmine Sanders