Here I sat, listening to Springsteen by Eric Church, reading He's So Not Worth It by Kieran Scott, my mind dancing somewhere on the North Carolina beaches, as the sun tucks it self beneath the horizon, to return in a mere few hours. Half of my mind was consumed by processing the words I read on each page, the other half absently reminiscing on the three days I spent with my best friend on the glistening waters of Beaufort and Atlantic Beach. The song recounts, funny how a melody sounds like a memory, fitting my feelings so well. I flash back to sitting in our room on our respective twin beds, the FM radio across the room, those same words unraveling through the small speakers and into the sweet and slightly salty air. I would be sedentary, legs crossed at the ankle, enveloped in a book, while Morgan surfed the web on her Blackberry or texted someone. And in the silence between us, Eric Church sang the bond between us to life, each drum beat a like the gentle rays of the sun on the beach, his voice like the sloshing waves against the foldable chairs we dragged up to the tip of the water.
But through the evocative music being expelled through my iHome, I heard a call that was soft enough it could have been imagined. "Jen." A voice so familiar to me begged, almost choked out entirely by sobs. Jumping to my feet, realizing the need in my sister's voice, I walked the eight steps from the edge of the carpeting in my room to hers. There lay my older sister, her face stained by tears, a sea of tissues around her bed like lava. I was prince charming, having to make it across to the princess in distress. She scooted herself over on her small bed, with bright pink sheets and a teddy bear residing close to her. She looked of such juvenile innocence, her hands gripping the blankets around her body, her nose runny and red as if her friends at school had just mutinied and she was kicked out of the Fab Five in the fourth grade, now revised to be the Fab Four. But that is essentially what happened. The only word she uttered was "Jen," her head now resting on my sunburnt thigh, her blonde ponytail thin and flimsy behind her. I ran my fingers through it, keeping my other hand propped on the top of her head, stroking it. Beads of water splashed onto my leg, as she recounted what the mean girls on the playground had said. Now more like mean girls at the bar. Her words fell like glass, shards flying everywhere, some even hurting me. The queen bee had found flaw in my sister, her words the accusation of a judge after a trial. Seeing one you had admired, one you had looked up to and seen as strong, brave, untouchable, cry makes your own tears prepare for the front line. We just lay there, her head on my lap, her soft hair the same it had been since we were a couple of elementary schoolers, fighting over the last cookie. And while so much had changed between us, a dragon occupying the lava between us, some rugged rocks finding their place between us, I would always find my way across the bridge, me to her rescue, or her to mine.
Now I hear the water in the shower beside my room gushing through the pipes and out into the bath-shower, the water droplets hitting the floor beneath her feet. I know she'll come out, red as beat, and tiptoe into my room. She'll talk, or maybe she'll be characterized by reticence, her thoughts running away as she wishes she could. And I'll be ready to brush her hair, or paint her toenails. Because we all need each other. As I need her, and she needs me now, I'll be ready with in my armor, to come comfort her and rescue her from the harsh reality of life. We'll go back to the playground in our pigtails and overalls, slide down the slides and never take it for granted.
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