Kid Sister

It’s my first day at work after vacation. I’ve just stepped from the car to the curb when I am hailed from across the street:

“Ruthie!”

Standing in a patch of early morning sun outside the coffee shop is a grown woman carrying a cup of caffeine in one hand and waving at me with the other. Superimposed over this image is the memory of a six-year-old girl in a cardie and pink gingham at the far end of the school corridor. I immediately wave back at her.

“Hi, kid!”

“Have a good day!” she calls, and heads off to start hers.

My wee sis and I are two years apart, but I think of her as my twin—probably ’cause we were raised together and the Big Guys were a trio. Aside from sharing parents, siblings, and a family resemblance, though, we’re not a whole lot alike. Our differences complement each other—hence the twin analogy—but if we’d met as adults, I doubt we’d be as close as we are.

I see her once a week, on Thursdays for coffee on the wall, and we talk about adult things like work and home and credit lines and arthritic flares and cars and kids, sometimes about books or movies, but mostly it’s just hanging out for half an hour in familiar company. Boy Sister, who doubles as her elf, usually joins us, staying behind for Philosophy Quest after she goes back to work. (He and I are lucky: we can steal a few extra minutes because no one is looking. She’s not so fortunate.)

One day after she’d emptied her coffee cup and spent our break in a mutual dissection of all that was grey in our world, she gave me a hug and trudged away, back to the mill. I watched her go, smiling when her voice floated over her shoulder toward me.

“Love ya, sissy!”

I sat for a sec, then said to BS: “Those are the best words a big sister can hear.”

Love you too, wee ’un.