My Little Sister

I've never really blogged before...I am sure everyone says that. Its like some virginal stipulation someone makes when they are in the heat of a passionate fumble of their elbow into their lover's crotch.

Keeping that confession in mind, I was trying to figure out what people write about in their blogging maiden voyage. So as a first time writer, I of course, wanted to write about something that would draw people of all shapes, sizes and colors, and when someone read it they would be charmed off their asses and pontificate on how such a witty, well-written woman could possibly exist after only 22 years on this planet! Buahahahahaha!

That being the goal, I thought and paced, and thought some more, but I realized that if being myself doesn't draw you in, then no preponderance of witty repartee will do the trick. So that's when I stormed away from this freaking computer...and(!).... called my sister.

My sister is a 12-year old girl and she is about to turn 13 on the same day John Lennon celebrated his years on Earth. I tend to think that means she is a very special person. I had been thinking about her a lot lately, but when I spoke to this "tween" of my heart (who'da thunk I'd ever say that one?!), I got the usual responses of "uh-huhs" and "okays" that comes from the general malaise of having too many hormonal stimuli and not enough doors in the world to slam.

I guess I can't blame her. We rarely speak anymore. The charming man that is my stepfather nipped that one in the bud! Nice going John. Way to be awesome!

Since I went off to college four years ago, and moved out of their house (by his not-so-nice request), he's not allowed me to spend more than a few minutes at a time with her and only in the presence of my mother. I have gotten the feeling, or rather the direct gossip from my mother, that my sister thinks I care for her less than all my twitty little friends. But what can I do? How can you ever tell someone that the only father they have ever known is a controlling, neanderthal, prick?

All bitterness aside, I miss my little sister. I remember when she started walking holding our Dad's hands as she toddled in her little pink onesie, with little purple flowers. I remember when my alcoholically-debilitated, recently divorced father, charged me with quitting school and taking care of their "marriage saver" child.

I still regret how impatient I was with her.

Yet, I cannot forget how I was the only one there when she said her first words: "agua" and "blue." I will never regret the hours spent at her crib hoping I would be the one graced with such an honor. 

Really though, not much has changed. I am still waiting around, hoping she say something to me that isn't just thoughtless gibberish. The only difference is back then, I knew how to encourage: I would stand there, faced pressed against the bars, talking to her and giving her the time she needed to form the words. Now, I have no idea. She is a stranger to me, and I have no recourse. I long to hear her secrets, and impart words of wisdom to which she might possibly, maybe, kind of listen. I want to kick the ass of the first boy that breaks her heart, and not just hear about it from our sportscaster of a mother.

Even more disheartening, is that I met the man with whom I want to spend my life, and I don't know how to introduce him to my baby sister, because....I don't know her.