Today, my sister joins me in the business of being thirty-something. As per her usual modus operandi, she took 4 years and 11 months to join me in this; her husband will be quick to remind me that she is {always} worth the wait.
Of this fact, I am well aware. I've heard often the story of the 4-year-old version of myself bursting through the door of our Ala Kapuna Place apartment on the day she came home from the hospital, flinging my backpack (and all niceties) to the floor, and tossing a token "Hi, Mom!" over my shoulder as I raced to the bedroom where she lay: my future playmate, sparring partner, secret-sharer, and accomplice in a very few, very minor crimes--I am, in fact, a quite boring and rule-abiding older sister. (And I also would give much to hear our mom tell this story again.)
Physically, we are nothing alike, aside from the identical subtle (and finely-tuned) expressions used to remind our husbands who is {really} in charge (lest they forget). Discreet death stares aside, my sister and I are opposites: I am the adorable and slightly squishy sister; she is the charming, beautiful runner whose mere presence can command a room--sometimes intentionally, sometimes not. She has both the honor and the burden of bearing a beautiful resemblance to Mom; when I look at her, I catch glimpses of our mother that make me both smile and fight back tears at the same time.
Growing up, she quickly established herself as the child with a mind of her own, not easily swayed by the preferences and opinions of any who would care to divulge such things; this was sort of cute when she was 2 years old, and became slightly less charming as she got older. Sometimes, it was downright scary, and there is a thankfulness for the grace and protection that has been hers through these experiences. To this day, she continues to do as she sees fit, but has called to service the ability to listen more closely to that voice that comes from both above and within; her example has reminded me to do the same.
I talked to her this morning; she recounted how she had fallen asleep on the couch last night, and when Terry woke her to go to bed sometime after midnight, even in her fog, she remembers realizing, "I'm 30 years old now!" Funny; turning 30 did seem to be one of those things that was both everything and nothing at all, at the same time, in my memory.
I never could quite figure out how to finish this post; it's often the hardest part for me when I write of my loved ones, trying to summarize the depth of emotion that runs through this short little body o' mine. So I'll just close this today with a picture of us; love you, Keala.
{Thankful.}
