I miss the playground Dad made for us. We would play Candyland in the treehouse and swing so high on the swings we swore we could see over the rooftops of our neighborhood. Your swing was always the one to the left, and you would always make such a fuss if I swung on your swing. We would run around the backyard chasing purple butterflies and blowing tiny bubbles that wobbled up into the air, letting the wind carry them. I always tried to pop every last one, never letting them escape me. You hated when I did that. RELATED: 13 All-Too-Common Family Conflicts (And Expert Tips To Solve ‘Em) We would lift the branches of our raspberry bush to find all the berries hiding beneath the leaves. We always got our share because you only ate the dark red ripe ones, and I liked the light sour ones. We would watch our sunflowers grow so tall they surpassed both of our heights throughout the summer. We would help the vegetables grow in the garden with Mom and I hated when you would speak for me, just because I was the little sister.
Despite being a child of few words, I knew you just wanted to take care of me the best you could.
I miss our playroom. I miss our closet stuffed with board games and how we would sit on the floor, going through each one at a time. You always had to be the blue player or else you wouldn’t play; I settled for red. I let you win because you would demand rematches if you lost. I could have sat there in that room with you forever, forgetting the world outside those walls. I miss our old kitchen, and how you would always make me climb on top of the counters and reach for the cereal Mom kept above the fridge. You loved your Corn Pops and Rice Krispies, and you always used to sprinkle sugar on them before putting your ear to it your bowl to listen to the crackles and snaps. I used to love playing dress up with you. I would sit on the bottom bunk and watch you riffle through our deep pink chest full of dresses and wings and wands. We played make-believe, letting our imaginations carry us away into another world of cowboys and pirates, princesses and fairies. I always liked playing Belle, and dancing around the room in my beautiful gold gown. You liked being Esmeralda or Jasmine. RELATED: 9 Signs You And Your Sister Have Serious Bad Blood I remember how we had matching dresses that our Aunt sewed for us, and the silver wings Mom made to go with them.
I thought I was beautiful; I thought I could fly. I was infinite.
But most of all, I liked those quiet moments — sitting on the floor beside you and watching Disney movie after movie. Your favorite was “Cinderella,” but I liked “The Little Mermaid.” Ariel was so spunky, and I liked that. We would sit there, captivated by how the princesses glide across the screen and how graceful they are, thinking one day that could be us. I looked up to you for everything, and you always had such a gentle heart. I miss those days, Sis. I remember them like they were yesterday. We used to be inseparable, we did everything together.
You’re my big sister, and I looked up to you to protect me from the danger of the world. You were my best friend, and I cherished you.
I look back on these memories and I smile, knowing it was once everything I wanted it to be. I don’t know when life got so complicated. I don’t remember how our movie nights turned into closed doors, and sisterly protection turned into jealousy and competition. I don’t know when we drifted so far apart. You’re a world away now. We grew into different people, and we lost our innocence. We both live on our own now. And although we only live a town away from each other sometimes it feels like you’re another world away from me. We see each other from time to time but it’s not like it used to be.
I don’t think we’ll ever be as close as we once were, but I’ll always love you around the world and back again.
RELATED: 75 Sister Quotes To Thank Yours For Always Having Your Back Chantal Godin is a writer currently completing her Masters in Sociology. Her work covers social justice, clean living, family topics, and relationships. This article was originally published at Unwritten. Reprinted with permission from the author.
