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My Sister in Three Photos
These are moments trapped on film that don’t mean much anymore
Photo #1:
My six-year-old sister’s stubby arms reach from behind and gently cup my bent knees. Our cheeks touch. I hunch allowing her to fully encompass me as my mom snaps the photo. Her hair brushes over my forehead and, except for two smiles, we look as if we are one.
As a kid Rachel gnawed on steak fat and cooked chicken tails making her pajamas fit tight across her bottom. She was cute and tubby and brown with a pixie haircut and stick-straight bangs. She had a sweet smile with chipmunk cheeks. I was surprised we were related.
Rachel is my beautiful, older sister. With stick-straight, blue-black hair and island-girl brown skin, people thought she was an exotic. Boys flocked to her while I was overlooked…and envious—think: Cousin Itt, the albino version.
Growing up boys passed messages to her through me as if I was a medium, a vapor, a mist of connectivity. “Jake told me to tell you he says, hi,” I’d say and wait for a sign to send back. She’d nod, on occasion make a small sound, but mostly she kept right on listening to the silver cube radio we’d gotten for Hanukkah. That was the year, Philadelphia Freedom vied for number one against, Don’t Go Breakin’ My Heart on Casey Kasem’s top forty both sung in part by Elton John so what did…
