The Writer’s Corner features poetry, essays, short stories, satire, and various fiction and nonfiction from SCAD Atlanta students. To submit your own work for the Writer’s Corner, email features@scadconnector.com.
“The Tragedy of Sisterhood” by Celiany Martez
One of the most significant relationships someone can have and nurture is that of their siblings. In my case, it was my sister.
It is impossible to separate my childhood from my sisterhood.
We shared the same room, went to the same school, and all my childhood toys were once hers. When I think of sisterhood, an image of her red hair and freckled face comes to mind. The image of her hazel eyes and the sound of her wild laugh take me back. Being the youngest, she seemed to have all the answers and solutions to everything.
There was nothing that I wanted more than to be like her.
I followed her around.
I’d copy a lot of the things she’d do and say.
But what I treasured the most was how we both shared our own little world.
In a small room, on the third floor of an apartment, we would laugh and talk our afternoons away. We would spend long days entertaining each other. Making fun of each other. Fighting with each other.
A routine that would seem so mundane, is now a treasured memory that can only be found in our heads.
My only comfort is to remember.
I remember us playing with my “Beauty and the Beast” tea set. I would make her an invitation and run to the other side of the room to give it to her.
I remember we would fight over who would sit in the passenger seat. She would always win because she had longer legs. She still has longer legs.
I remember during our school days, running, looking for her in her classroom after the bell rang.
In all of those memories, she was there, it was about her.
In all of those memories, we were together.
In that small room, we grew up together. Two beds side-by-side with no more than a small nightstand to separate them.
In that small room, we were our most genuine selves. Two girls figuring out life together.
In that small room, the memories fill and overflow the space.
At first, we were just girls; she had an odd obsession with putting stickers on the walls and ceiling, and we’d fight about whether or not I should’ve had my Barbies in the room. We would watch “Hannah Montana” every night and I would sneak into her bed when I would get too cold or lonely.
Then we both grew up, and our dresser filled up with makeup and perfumes. We would fight whenever she would take my jewelry. She would ask me to help her with her makeup, and I would beg her to go to the mall with me. I’d meet all of her boyfriends, and cover for her when she’d sneak out of the house.
We moved to the United States together and we still shared a bedroom. She would hear about my day in a new school. I would be excited to hear about her new job. We would take afternoon walks every day and talk about life. I would be surprised by how much I was able to still find out about her. Together, we would daydream about our plans in a new country.
But days pass, and people grow.
Some plans succeed, and others are forgotten about.
Before I realized, we became adults.
I realize there is a beautiful tragedy about growing up with a sister, especially an older one.
We no longer share that room in which we grew up.
The last time I went to our childhood home, I noticed how small the walls were.
How small and young we must’ve been to see that space as a separate world.
We no longer push our beds together to sleep right next to each other.
Now we have separate spaces in separate cities.
How close we must’ve been to want to spend more time closer together.
There are no more fights about who would sit in the front.
Now we both have our cars, and fighting about a seat has seized importance.
How childish we must’ve been to give it so much importance.
Everything has become smaller, everything has become less exciting.
Despite our monthly visits,
And despite our weekly calls,
Things have changed. Priorities have shifted.
I look at my sister,
I see how time has passed.
I see how her long red hair is always in a bun or ponytail,
I see how her conversation topics are not the same,
I see her goals in life have severely changed.
I see her freckles have faded away.
I see her childish laugh has become more tamed.
But as I look at my sister,
I now feel what she felt years ago.
I now see she did not always have the answers to everything.
I look at her and see that little girl who I thought was grown up.
Who I looked up to for comfort.
I look at her, knowing those days of playing are behind us.
That those days of childish wonder are gone.
I look at my sister and I no longer feel as if I hold all of her secrets.
That she keeps much to herself.
I no longer run to her classroom to pick her up.
I no longer do her makeup or her hair.
She no longer helps me with my homework.
She no longer puts up stickers in our room.
There are no more afternoon walks.
There are no more tea parties.
And yet I am hopeful.
In fact, I pray…
I pray that within a couple of years, one day, I’ll catch up with her again, just for a little bit, just for a while.
I pray that in that childhood home, in our childhood room,
Two little sisters play with each other and grow with each other.
I hope that in a couple of years, we push two chairs together while we watch “Hannah Montana,”
I hope that I see her wearing one of my necklaces and I fight her about it,
I hope that I get to run to pick her up again.
I hope all those things that I once found annoying about her, would annoy me just a bit longer.
I hope that now, we can hold on to the few things we still share.
I hope they don’t go away like everything else.
I hope we treasure them more than what we treasured our time back then.
I hope life doesn’t take them away.
But most of all,
I hope I get to hold her secrets as I once did before,
I hope she gets to see herself as I’ve always seen her,
I hope we get to revisit our world once more.
Being a little sister is watching her grow up and figure out the world,
Watch her pave the way for who is it that you could become,
It’s learning from her mistakes, and seeking to have her accomplishments.
Yet, wishing to be with her,
Share more memories with her.
Not wanting to be left behind.
That’s the heartbreaking, tragic part of sisterhood.
Having to grow up together,
But in the end, growing apart.