Most of my memories are big, loud, elaborate affairs that
come barreling across my mind like a loaded dump truck on a gravel road. But, there is a memory that flutters into my
senses so softly, so quietly, I’m not sure if it is real or a wonderful dream. Such memories are as sweet and comforting as Blackburn
Syrup on a hot buttered biscuit in the dead of winter.
On a cool, clear morning in the summer of 1997, I got a
glimpse into the heart of my sister. It
is a memory that comes back to me often.
Like an old reel-to-reel tape player, I replay the scene in my mind over
and over, as if savoring each second will keep it tattooed onto my heart
forever.
I wake up slowly, rising up through the layers of sleep like
a scuba diver coming up for air. With no
blasting alarm clock or whining dog waiting to be taken out for a morning walk,
I take the leisurely route to waking up that is reserved only for vacation
mornings. The early morning sunlight is dancing across the heavy quilt that is
appreciated on a cool mountain night but kicked to the bottom of the bed at the
first hint of a summer morning. I lay
there thinking that I am the only one of our vacation party awake at such an
early hour until I smell the heavenly aroma of coffee brewing in the kitchen of
our Smokey Mountain cabin. I quietly
roll off the very edge of the bed and reach back to cover up my three year old
son who is spread across the bed, arms thrown up over his head, legs sprayed
across most of the bed, as wide open to the world in sleep as he is fully
awake. He always starts out as a big boy
sleeping in his own bed, but ends up “sharing” mom and dad’s bed, forcing both
of his parents to opposite edges of the mattress. Dennis and I have learned to sleep perched on
the edge of the bed like old hoot owls clinging to the tip of a branch. I look at Drew, my precious son, in his Buzz
Lightyear PJ’s, his light brown hair going this way and that, his soft, sweet
baby breath whistling through his slightly stuffy nose and I marvel, once
again, on how I could be so very blessed.
It was the summer of 1997 and my sister, Gail, asked us to
join her family on a trip to Gatlinburg, Tennessee. We had never vacationed together before, so
we were both eager to spend that time together with our families. My baby sister and I had not always been best
of friends. As the oldest child of four
children, I always thought it my responsibility to “take care” of my siblings –
which often resulted in me being the bossy and opinionated big sister. When we reached our teens, Gail decided that
she did not appreciate her sister telling her every move to make. We were very close to the same age, but we
could not have been more different. While I was serious, studious, obedient and a
book worm, Gail was outgoing, rebellious and, let’s face it, a lot more fun
than her older sister. I wanted to
become an award- winning writer, work for a big-city newspaper, make millions
of dollars and get as far away from my little hometown of Senatobia,
Mississippi as possible. Gail wanted a
family, a nice little home in Senatobia, maybe a part-time job as her children
got older. She wanted a yard full of
flowers, Saturday night steak dinners and the PTA. Most of all, she wanted to spend the rest of
her life with the man of her dreams. She
eventually achieved all those goals.
During our 20’s and 30’s, while I was climbing the corporate
ladder, driving cool cars and wearing designer clothes, my sister was having
her babies, buying her first home and taking care of her family. She married her high school sweetheart within
two weeks of graduating from high school and had her first child a couple of
years later.
She and I stayed in touch but really did not have much in
common during those years. I was too
busy with work and she was busy with her husband and children.
In 1992, at the age of 35, I was pregnant with my first
child. By then, Gail was an old pro at
all things motherly and I soon learned that my sister was the smartest person I
knew. For nine months, I called her
every single week to ask her about the weird things going on with my body. She laughed at me, but was very patient and
understanding about my hysteria. Once
when someone hurt my feelings during an unusually hormonal day, she sat with me
in my mother’s tiny bathroom - me on the toilet and her on the side of the tub
– for over an hour until my hiccuping tears finally dried.
After Drew was born, Gail became my own personal Dr.
Spock. I called her every day to get her
advice about something – was Drew going to the bathroom too much or not
enough? Should I feed him rice cereal
now or wait until the books said to do it?
Shouldn’t he have teeth by now?
“Is nine months too early for Drew to walk?” I once asked
her.
“If you saw him
walking, it must not be,” she quipped.
Drew’s first birthday party was at Gail’s little ranch style
house in Senatobia. She made hamburgers
and hot dogs and she let Drew put his hands all in his cake and make a big
mess. My sister loved my child about as
much as she loved her own. Her house was
filled with kids, dogs, food and love.
It was just her nature. It was
who she was. I was just figuring that
out. She had known it all along.
So, in June of 1997, we loaded up a small convoy of kids and
food and headed to the mountains for our first ever vacation together. It was a week of adventure, laughter, and
family time. We sat in chairs on the
cabin’s large deck and talked about our childhood, enjoying the amazing views,
mountain air and each other.
On this special vacation morning, I tip-toe out of the
second story bedroom of the mountain-side cabin, to have coffee with my sister
before the rest of our group got up. I close the bedroom door as quietly as
possible and peek over the balcony into the kitchen below. I see my sister standing at the kitchen
counter in her husband’s extra-large t-shirt, her curly blond hair making a
halo above her tiny face. Just as I am
about to whisper good morning, I see her husband come into the kitchen and slip
his arms around her. Standing just under
5 feet, my little sister nearly disappears into her husband’s embrace as she
turns her head around and up to give him a kiss. Like teenagers in love, they are giggling and
whispering and stealing kisses like there is no one else in the world. At that moment, I think of when they were dating. She was still in high school and he had a job
working until 10 pm. He would come by
our house and blow his car horn – once for “Hello” and three times for “I love
you.” A few minutes later I would hear
the phone in our bedroom ring – actually, half a ring so it would not wake up
our parents - and she would take the phone under the bed covers and whisper and
giggle with him for hours.
I smile and quietly slip back into my bedroom and never let
them know that I have seen this amazing testimony to true love and
devotion. I am so very blessed to have
witnessed this moment; a few seconds that become more and more precious to me
as the years go by.
That fall, I unexpectedly lost my little sister to a heart
attack. Looking back, I now know that
brief look into my sister’s life was one of the greatest gifts I have ever
received. God opened the blinds and
allowed me to see inside the heart of my sister. On an early morning, in a little log cabin on
the side of a mountain, I witnessed the love story that was
my sister’s life. Not a fairy tale, mind
you, but a real life filled with hard times and disappointments, triumphs and
victories. Children, a mortgage, car
payments, disagreements. A yard filled
with flowers and Saturday night dinner dates and pre-dawn rendezvous in the kitchen. Laughter and hugs and
kisses.
A life that was way too short, but filled to
the brim with love.
Always love.
