Deb found some old essays and such of mine while in a document search through some old boxes in our basement. I found this short piece on my two youngest daughters. It is an obvious first draft and cutting about 30% of it’s bloated text would be in order. But it returned to me after a few years and I felt I should let it see the light of day as it had been while in waiting all these years. I did not edit past spelling and repetition and such. Margi had a bit of the flu and her sister Alexandra was in attendance. About a decade ago .
At Age Ten and Five
The morning sun fell through the blinds on Margi, sick and lying on the east wall couch of our Sheridan Street house. Her baby sister, Alex fetched her water quickly. Little ALex fetched aspirins and syrups, blankets and pillows on pattering bare feet across the wooden floors. Quickly the little girl tended to her ailing sister. This was not the first time, both had done such things before.
Alex cared for her sister as naturally as taking a breath or brushing the flaxen hair from her eyes. No guilt or embarrassment, no hesitation or doubt from either girl in giving or receiving love from the other. Both, had grown together since before the stretch of their memory. And just as naturally they would play together until I would growl at them to quiet down, or fight with each other till we threatened their little lives with parental wrath.
They ebbed and flowed from jealousy or competition for love or favor. They were kids together. We were all there, older sisters and mom and dad. All keeping an eye out and keeping them safe. With a fat little grandma to spoil them with time and attention. But then slave them with stepping and fetching.
They were just kids. But one of them was down now. And the miracle of Margi and Alex blossomed before me once again. The healing poured from one to the other without urging or education from any other authority than the wisdom of the heart. I didn’t have to tell them to help or heal or comfort each other when the need was there. I just had to witness the revealed nature of their bond of sisterhood.
I sat in my unremarkable living room, on an unremarkable morning and bore witness to the miracle of those two most remarkable children helping each other through life. They are my rosebuds. They are my heros.