It is a sad day for me today. You have made good on your word and your flight leaves at 9:30 tonight. I had to say goodbye first, before anyone else did, because it was torture to sit and wait until it was time for you to go. I watched you say goodbye to the boys and I ran downstairs, not wanting my kids to witness their mama falling apart (for the millionth time).

NYC awaits and you, my beautiful, strong, smart, determined little sister will make it your own like only you know how. I know you are scared. I know there will be lonely days ahead. I know you will second-guess yourself. I know, because you are me and I am you. Born of the same mother, raised by the same two strong, courageous, stubborn, controlling, loving parents. Fed the same delicious, fattening, fried Polish food. And somehow, it never made it’s way onto your model-like frame. It did, however, always make it’s way onto mine.

27, the whole world ahead of you. I cannot empathize with your needs; I am a mother now. I am a wife. But I am still your sister. And though I may not understand why, I will always support you and never tire of filling your head with my wise antecdotes about life and choices and chances.

We have never been apart like this before. I know it will pass and soon you will wed and have babies of your own and we will drink expensive coffee while we get over-priced pedicures and we will laugh and reminisce and I will lovingly slug you, reminding you how much pain you caused me as you packed your bags and set off to make your own future, one seperate from the one I had planned out for you.

I see our mother in me today. Stop giggling and pointing. I will tell you why. I think I might now understand the pain she felt the day she realized that she could not control our every move, our every decision, right or wrong. I feel the helplesness that comes with having to let someone go, to respect their choices; to support them and lift them up in prayer even when you want to selfishly hold them back, keep them near, lock them in the back bedroom until they come to their senses. It is the passage of time and the birth of my own two sons that has slowly and painfully taught me that I do not have a say in everything. I am struggling with this, especially tonight.

I expect you will call me in the morining, when your plane safely lands. You will tell me that you love me and I will cry softly again. We were born sisters and through life’s many experiences, both good and bad, we became best friends. Only you know the joy of beach drives and classical music, galloping horses and swarms of bees. You saw me through my darkest times and chose to never give up on the possibility that somewhere underneath that mess was the sister you always loved and believed in.

Now it is my turn. I know you have to go. I know you have to do this. I know you will succeed. You are already everything you need to be. You just have to believe it for yourself.

I love you so much agusiu. I miss you so much already and you aren’t even on the damn plane yet.

Please call me in the morning.


Spread the love

2 Replies to “Dear Sister”

  1. I hope she got there safely and that she DID call you this morning. Good luck to your sweet sister and to you!

    Thanks for coming by today – nice to see you. See you soon – Kellan

  2. Joanna Bannana, this is Jenny Volz and I have to say….the love that permiates through your words and wisdom inspires me. Nicole Snow sent me the link to your “place”….and I am immediately enamored. You’ve come from such a different place (I was with you through some) and I am impressed beyond belief. You are the most loving person I know and I knew you’d be a writer some day! This blog confirms it! Go after that dream. I love you.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.