Sister

These are my hands. These are our hands. My sisters and I. We put our hands in this concrete slab after we moved into our log home that my dad built with his bare hands. I was 5 yrs old. I still remember waiting for my turn. Katy went first, 10 yrs old. Then Kristen, 8 yrs. We were so young. A blank notebook waiting to be written on. Waiting for our hands to evolve, grow, harden and callous. Now we are women. Katy is a spectacular mother. She makes her own vegetable stock. And sometimes I feel like she’s the only person who knows where I am right now. Kristen is awaiting motherhood, a baby girl on the way. Her belly a little ball attached to her slim figure. She teaches children to read and waits diligently for her Airforce husband to return home after each flight.

Then there is me….

These are my hands now. This is from another concrete slab behind our garage. Done in 2001, but I checked and my hands are the same size. Nothing has changed and yet everything has changed. My hands no longer play barbies or pick wild strawberries in the field below our house. These hands are my livelihood now. They write doctors orders and pop pills out of packaging. They rub lotion on dry legs. They remove sutures.

These hands hold my face when I cry and they dance with delight when I cook.

My hands wish to hold my sisters hands tonight. Remembering the times of long ago.

“Sister, I hear you laugh,

My heart fills full up

Keep me please

Sister, when you cry

I feel your tears

Running down my face

Sister, sister, keep me.” -Dave Matthews

“I could never love anyone as much as I love my sisters.” Jo-Little Women