h2>Dating : 1/21/21, The middle
I have two older sisters.
The middle one is the special one. She’s always has been. She’s the nicest. Some people can talk and they choose their words carefully. My husband says she chooses her paragraphs carefully. She talks, not just carefully, but precisely.
She is modest. She has some accolades in her life, but she won’t let on. She’s a writer, and a good one, but she never mentions this as a profession or as a passion.
She’s honest. We raised two boys. She raised two boys and two girls. She never did, and still doesn’t hide the difficulty and heartbreak in raising kids. One of her kids made a strong left turn in her youth and ran afoul with her school, the police, and her parents.
When this wayward youth knocked on our door looking for a place to live, her mom never hid her tears, her jealousy, or the hope her little sister might impart some sense into her daughter.
I am closer to my oldest sister and even more closer with my brother, but there is special bond with my middle sister. It’s always been there.
When I reached the age where my parents wouldn’t let me crawl in bed with them, she let me. When my mom and I would fight, she let me cry and be angry. When our dad died, she was the one who told me.
I stopped by her house on the way to work this morning to pick up a box. I woke her and she was groggy. It’d been a couple of weeks since we talked so we made coffee and caught up some and gossipped some. When I left she caught a glance of herself in a mirror. Her hair had a definite smooshed look. She laughed at herself.
That’s the middle sister. Mature enough to laugh at herself.