Sisters

It was August of 2001 and we were vacationing in Northern California with my sister and her family. After a lazy afternoon spent reading books and playing board games, my sister and I decided to go for a brisk walk down to the beach before addressing dinner. Joined by our gaggle of children, we donned our jackets and headed out the door.

The wind danced through the long golden grasses as we walked down a path of rippled sunshine. The children led the way, their walking sticks in the air, batons meting out the rhythm of our parade. My sister and I played the caboose.

We stopped when we reached the bluff overlooking the ocean. Gnarled gray trees stood sentry, their roots clinging steadfastly to the hardened earth. Far below, the sea undulated gently and the salt air rose to welcome us in her warm embrace. Out on the rocks, a lone sea lion lifted his chest to the sky and bellowed. My oldest daughter, OD, stood stock-still. “Shhh,” she commanded, “he’s talking to me.”

“What is he saying?” I asked, intrigued by her ability to understand his wild barking.
She closed her eyes and smiled, softly shaking her head, “it’s a secret.”
I watched her savor the moment as it settled in her soul. I wondered what seed had just been planted and I wondered if I would notice when it grew.

We continued on our journey, each lost in quiet contemplation. A thin black garter snake slithered between our feet and darted under an ancient graying log that lay sheltered under the wind swept branches of the evergreens. Flailing walking sticks and shrieking quickly replaced our silence, all of us scampering madly to avoid a snake that was already off the path and was clearly just eager to avoid us, as we were to avoid him. We dissolved into a comedy of keystone cops as we hopped and scuttled our way past the small stand of trees.

Moments later, we crossed a tiny wooden bridge that spanned a dry creek bed. The rocks below us were smooth, faded orbs shaded in grays and browns. Our feet clomped loudly over the weathered timbers.

“Who’s that tramping over my bridge?” boomed OD.
“It is I, the smallest Billy Goat Gruff,” responded my youngest daughter, YD, in her squeakiest and highest pitched voice. She clenched up her arms and her hands became tight fists as she spoke, trying to embody the most diminutive goat of the Gruff family.

My girls are separated by almost five years, yet at this moment, they are totally in synch with each other. I can see the tiny golden thread that each of them has cast out to the other. It will join with other random moments, twisting together and weaving the strong rope that will forever bind them together as sisters.

It has been a long road since that summer day. OD and YD have grown to be as different as marshmallows and brussel sprouts. They have often wondered to me how they could even be related. They have ignored each other, complained about each other and gone out of their way to be as unlike the other as they could be. They were not merely drifting apart; they were running as hard and as fast as they could in opposite directions.

It made me sad to see such a deep chasm grow between them. I wanted them to be the kind of sisters that my sisters and I weren’t. It seemed, however, that history was doomed to repeat itself

And then, in January, in the soggy, wet, miserable dead of winter, the sun rose and its warmth enveloped my daughters and their hearts began to thaw toward each other.

This winter, YD, a freshman in high school, needed a dress to wear to Winter Formal. I am NOT a shopper nor am I up to date on the latest fashion trends. YD knows this, she also knows that her sister is, so when I asked her if she would like me to check with her sister as to where to shop and what to buy, YD eagerly dialed the phone and handed it to me.

“Oooo!” OD squealed when I asked her advice, “can I take her shopping?” Her desire seemed genuine, but my daughters’ years of mutual misunderstandings made me hesitate.
“Pu-leeeez?!” she begged. “I know exactly where to take her.”
“Well…” I hedged.
Sensing a weakness, OD swooped in and took control, “How much do you want to spend? Ooo, and after we choose a dress, I can take her to Nordstrom for a make-over!”

YD, sitting next to me at the kitchen table, began to smile and her head started moving until she looked like a bobble head doll come to life in my kitchen.
OD was in her element. Fashion ideas were bubbling out of her. Her excitement was spilling through the phone and YD was lapping it up until the room was pulsing with anticipation.

We formulated a plan, and the next day, OD picked up YD after school and took her to the mall.
Two, over the top happy girls came home to me that evening, smiles big enough to bridge the Columbia River. They had found the perfect dress and had scored some fabulous samples at the make-up counter.
Most importantly, they had each found a new, tiny golden thread and both of my girls were busily weaving once again, strengthening the rope that would bind them together forever as sisters.