A Poem: Being Big Sister...
Who we are is shaped by our beginnings.
Today’s Audio—
Hello all and sundry,
Thank you for stopping in! Always brings a smile, your coming by. Let’s get our usual something to sip and snack on, find a good spot to settle in, and share a poem.
Before we do that—
I have lots of siblings and among us there’s a great span of ages, miles, and relationships. There’s a jumble of us! The family dynamic involves far too much to write about here, but I’ll tell you that, for me, there are 7 connected biologically, 3 through marriage, a bonus sister, and 5 bonus brothers. I know! There’s a LOT of us! Of all 15, I have one full sibling, a sister. Two of our brothers have passed: my stepbrother, from cancer at 55 and an adopted brother, by suicide at 26. Both, very special men in our lives and gone much too soon.
We are the kids of divorce, split families, bonded by birth and death, and connection or not being connected at all. My whole life, I’ve been on the wave of being in touch and then, not; living near, and then, not; or knowing them, and then, not. It’s a wave of circumstance, of choice, and of just how it is; life IS a whirlpool. The thing about water, and waves like this, no matter the rise or fall, the crest or trough, the volatile vortex or halcyon pools, we are and, will always be, water, or siblings. There is a joining that will never be un-joined, no matter what, and a love that will be held, no matter what.
My full sister and I are pretty close in age, she is younger by 2 years and 8 days, and we have been super close over the years, and sometimes, not as close. That closeness or distance, however, never changes the depth of love we have for each other. We are FULLY bonded in a way quite different than we are with the rest of the bunch. Not less love or care flowing between us and the rest, but a longer wind of river we have coursed. There is more stuff of life that we have shared, and that makes our bond, not more or less better, but different.
Many people have a family makeup, like mine. If you do, you know. Others have always had full siblings, and some, have been the only child. People are sometimes super close to each other and some don’t speak at all. Some you’ve lived near all your life and others you see on occasion at holiday gatherings. No matter what your family photo looks like, we all have memories with them—good and bad. That’s the way of relationships, that’s the way of—LIFE, that’s the way the water flows.
Our moments with siblings, even with cousins or the kid next door, make up so much of who we become, who we are. Reflecting on those moments, we get that hindsight vision of how different times have contributed to aspects of our character, and shaped us, shaped our hearts.
To reflect on events, to consider those moments in time, to bring forth all of the emotions surrounding those interactions with the ones we love, is akin to watching a movie we star in and giving a review. Sometimes, if we are writers, this is the stuff of our stories, our poems, and our memoirs. In nearly every piece I’ve written, it has been that stuff which contributes to what I put on the page.
The substance of those reflections on happiness and heartache, on disappointment and celebration, on harmony and discord, on indifference and love comes together as a feature film of observation put to words. What we produce holds our perspective, our vision, our ‘scene take’, if you will. The way in which our eyes, mind, and heart filmed it, is unique to us, though we shared the moment with others. For some, it is, most likely, akin to that of which Shakespeare wrote in the The Tempest, “such stuff as dreams are made on”, all dream like, fleeting, or faded away. For others, like myself, it is as tangible, lasting, and vivid as the moment it was lived.
I write from those moments, those ‘scene takes’, which become the water I float on, swim in, or even, drown in.
Today’s poem shares several of those scene takes, it is reflection on those moments and on the beginning scenes of relationship with my sister, when we were so very young. When I found this poem, I knew this month would be the one to share it, our birth month.
Who we are is shaped by our beginnings.
Many blessings and MUCH LOVE,
~Wendy💜
Being Big Sister…
For my little sister, with love.
My memory is in Mind pictures, A mental film; All the sights, sounds, smells, Tastes and touches held Within them. I close my eyes and Replay moments, or Dig through stored Snapshots these eyes took. Early memories are So many, Yet, there are the ones Which surface most— For me, Being big sister Rises, often. Two years and eight days, After me, you arrived. And, I don’t remember Those early moments, The distaste For your presence, That Mom professed— Calling it hateful and cute All in the same sentence. I was two, and Shoved you off the bed, She said. No, I don’t remember that. I remember… Holding you like a doll, One to love and diaper, Share a bottle with, Right up to letting that BaBa go In a toss off the ferry, Into rushing Missouri waters, As you waved bye-bye and I cried, Buckets. I remember… The language Between toddler and infant; Understanding each other, Though our sounds Were not the same. Morning games of Baby babble and Chanted nouns: Ma Ma, Da Da Ba Ba. I remember… Worry, For you. When you’d be old enough To recognize that tobacco-strong, Alcohol-thick breath Warned of belt heavy hands. I remember… Happy smiles on Hand held adventures Around the ranch As flaxen curls were A swirl your smiling face. I remember… Careful words. Don’t pick grandma’s flowers, Just touch the edges Of their pretty. I remember... Raised voices as They burst through walls And my fists gripped The bars of your bed. My voice sang you songs On whisper; To trade your thundering tears For quiet baby giggles. Always, a melody to protect. I remember… Speaking for you, Then teaching words. Clapping, clapping On front porch steps As you learned. Still, I so often, Spoke for you. I remember… Helping you Learn the rules; No fist Should make you cry, Like mommy did Behind bathroom doors. I don’t remember… That I was too bossy, Well, it could have been that. For me, it was Protecting the angel You carried inside, All blue eyed, blonde And high voice, sweet. I remember… A story Grandpa loves to recall: In telling you to do something, Your inquest, “Did you ask Wendy if I could?” Always a surety, in your ask, Because you understood Protection. I remember… We were always together: Rides on ponies, Dips in stock tanks, Gathering eggs and Outrunning roosters. Garden gains seen while Shelling peas, snapping beans, Shucking corn on Grandma’s front step. Chokecherry picking, Raspberry eating, 3-minute eggs, PB and J packed lunches For outside picnics. And the nights We talked ourselves To sleep, In the twin-bed room, Planning tomorrow’s Day. I remember… Summers, Place that was safe, Mostly, At the ranch. Yet, there was a time Of heart screams, When a runaway horse Barreled over you. My torrent of tears, Though you were okay, Flooded in heavy drops Of guilt for dropping My protective ball. Though my elementary Frame could not have Done a thing To stop time, Or events. I remember… Cousin’s play: Three wheelers, Fishing, Horseback rides to Their house, Not knowing yet, That alcohol-thick breath Was something They knew About, too. Maybe, They were Safer while We were there. Maybe, Their summers Were better With witnesses, As ours were, Once Grandpa helped us Escape the house Our own father lived in. I remember… We loved those Younger days, More innocent days, Safety of summer days. And, I remember… End of summers. The last night there, The tears we shared In the dark of our room; Not ready to go. The long hugs, The tearful goodbyes, The sullen car rides home. Yes, I remember... To protect our hearts And divert the heartache, I would challenge you to A game— Window gazing As landscapes passed— We counted horses. I counted, Until the sky turned Dark, And my mind Slept while Filing away The pictures, the film, The times to Never forget. Volumes, albums, and reels Of early memories With you, little sister. Too many for words. I remember... Being your big sister. W. Gray -1994
Counting horses……
Thanks for sharing your memories Wendy I have a few of those good and bad. I am the big sister and have only one sister with the same parents and three other sisters and a brother with the same mother, but different father, and even another sister of my mother, but father unknown.
I thoroughly enjoyed reading your poem and the memories that you enjoyed with your little sister. I could so relate.
So many memories reading this beautiful poem, Wendy. Thank you for sharing this.❤️