Hi. It’s Cait. So I hacked my sister’s blog… as you may have nooooticed. MuwahahaHA!
“But why, Cait? Why, oh, why would you do such a thing and break the bond of sisterly trust between the two of you?” you surely ask.
Well, one: Seriously? This isn’t gonna break a damn thing.
And two: You’re joking – it’s not like it was hard. Same brain people. Keep up.
But the real reason I’ve violated her privacy is to tell you all something extremely important.
I love my sister.
While I occasionally dabble with writing (I am nowhere near as good as she), I know that I don’t have the words to describe how truly marvelous she is. I suspect that even Shakespeare would be hard pressed to translate my love and adoration into spoken or written language because I feel such words just don’t exist. Although, if he could, that’d be some pretty bad ass iambic pentameter.
Anyway… I love my sister.
I love her because she never didn’t have time for me. I love her because she accompanied Mum for Special Person Day in kindergarten which meant I got to have TWO people which made me the special-est of all. I love her because even though it would leave her crying and heartbroken, she always took goodnight phone calls from my four-year-old self that ended with me begging her to come home and not be married anymore. I love her because she didn’t listen to me.
I love her because she gave me books. Let me be a pirate and have a yellow horse. Tied my shoes. Taught me how to cross stitch (but not how to drive). She sang me bedtime songs that I didn’t know weren’t lullabies. Dyed my hair for the first time. Bought me a Tarot deck. Held me when I cried. Tweezed my eyebrows because I’m lazy. Built me a charm bracelet. Gives me bottles of Coke and mason jars full of Dove chocolates on bad days. She gave me the gift of music. Takes my stupid texts. Once stayed on the phone for twenty-five rings just to wake my ass up. She supported me in doing theatre and encouraged me to finally sing in front of others. (Blame for all my drunken karaoke falls upon her shoulders. And the Guinness.) She drove with me to my first day of college and set up my dorm then was there four years later at graduation. Called me her gypsy girl. Knows that daffodils mean “I love you.” And the greatest and most loving hug I’ve ever received was from her the day I told her I’m gay. Even though she already knew.
She’s fan-fucking-tastic. Her greenbean casserole is Heaven lightly coated with cheese, then baked. Her sugar cookies are the best in the whole damn world – really, the recipe says so. Her heart is bigger than her abuse of sarcasm. She is a remarkable mother. A talented and dedicated author and editor. A loyal and bluntly honest friend. She is beyond all words that mean greatness and her eyes are tearing as she reads this, but that’s okay because mine are, too. And it’ll be “all-bettered” in just a little bit because I can tell her about yet another stupid adventure of mine and her blue eyes will be rolling and her head shaking and she’ll laugh like sunshine.
Her laugh is my laugh.
So yes, my sister. You may call her Bronwyn, Bron, and other lovely, loving endearments. But I will be forever grateful that someone up there liked me enough to give me the privilege and honor of calling her Sisty.
Happy birthday and wedding anniversary. Sorry I announced – loudly – to the congregation during the ceremony that I had to pee. And thanks for not listening to my pleas of not having a husband anymore. For as much as you are a second mother to me, he’s been the best father a girl could ever have.