The morning started out cold, grey and foggy. By the time I arrived at my older son's house at 11 A.M., the sun had begun to burn away the fog. An hour and a half later, the sky was that deep blue of autumn, the sunlight golden, the breeze cool. As I drove home, I wondered what I could make for dinner that didn't involve going to the store. I wanted something warm and comforting, yet easy. Tuna casserole popped into my mind. I knew I had all the ingredients, so tuna noodle casserole it was going to be. I drove along, singing "tuna and noodles, tuna and noodles" under my breath.
And then I started to cry. Tuna and noodle casserole was one of those dishes that my sister and I had eaten often as children, and one of those dishes that brought back memories and drew us together.
I miss my sister. I know it's crazy, but I do. I miss my sister. As much as I love and appreciate my children and grandchildren, they don't share all my history. They don't have the same data bank of memories. They don't know when the meat pie mixture is perfectly seasoned, just by the smell. They didn't request New England boiled dinner as their first meal when they came home to visit. They don't share my twisted sense of humor.
I know it's not healthy. My sister has proven time and time again that she wants nothing to do with me. I don't understand it. She's said hurtful things, she's gone silent for years, she's blocked me from knowing anything about her life. And yet, in spite of all that, I miss her. It's pathetic, I know, but last April, even as i was walking up the sidewalk to my daughter's house for my 65th birthday dinner, I hoped against hope that Susan would be there, wanting to forgive and be forgiven.
I miss my sister. I want to write and tell her how much, and ask for forgiveness. But I'm afraid. She can be snarky and cruel, I know all too well. When my will power is waning, I pull out the letters she's sent in the past, and read her harsh words, and remind myself that the sister I thought I had was all a lie, a figment of my imagination.
But still, I miss my sister.
