Almost six-year-old Roberta reached up for the
diaphanous wishing fly. She closed her eyes, and with a dimpled smile, made her
wish: “A baby sister. Please, I want a baby sister.” She blew on the
well-seeded and well-wished-upon piece of fluff and watched it carry her hopes on
high-- across the lake at Uncle Dave’s bungalow colony, above the trees that
lined the lake, through the streaming clouds, and out of sight to where babies
are created and assigned. That next August I was the result, pink and rosy and
perfect in my sister’s eyes. From that magical wish, Roberta has been my
sister, friend, and ally. She has always been there, a trusted companion and
confidante. We had a wonderful mother, but I was endowed with an additional
mini- mom. In one of my favorite photographs her 8-year-old self holds one-year-old
me on her lap. She looks delighted and
quite proud; I look ready to jump out at the camera and world beyond. I knew I was safe because I was secure on my
sister’s lap.
Later I became her tag-along sister. One of my
early summer memories is sitting side by side with my sister at Swan Lake,
where we were part of a bungalow colony. Each of us held a branch with a string
and safety pin attached at the end, which we dangled over the water in hopes of
catching a fish. I truly believed we were fishing, and I think we both would
have screamed frantically, if a fish actually hooked itself on the end of the
line. Back in Brooklyn when I had temper tantrums, my arms and legs flailing on
the apartment’s parquet floors, my sister straddled over me, not allowing anyone
near to punish or reprimand me.
After we moved to a house in Queens, we were
only slightly more separated. In the apartment we shared a bedroom, but in the
house we each had a bedroom of our own. (My parents had slept on a ”high rise”
day bed in the living room, and once we were in a house, reclaimed their
marriage bed and bedroom set.) I was
further separated from my sister because I was entering kindergarten in one
school, while she was entering junior high school at a totally different
location. Later, when I was attending junior high school, she was attending
college. Yet, we were still close.
Summers were now spent at home. My parents could not afford a mortgage and
the cost of summer camp or a vacation. Almost all the other children in the neighborhood
were in camp. Roberta would often take me to her friend’s house, where we would
talk and play word games under the shade of a grape arbor. I was young and
would often mess up the count or the words. I found out decades later that my
sister did not always take me along willingly; she was under strict orders from
my mother. It wasn’t until we got older that the scales began to rebalance.
When my mother became terminally ill with breast
cancer, Roberta was married and working, but I was at home finishing my
master’s work. Many responsibilities shifted to me. Still, with my father in
the house and Roberta still involved, I functioned as the younger sister. After
our mother’s death, it took a few years for our relationship to re-align. She
was married, teaching, with children. I was working crazy hours in
advertising. I wasn’t there for her as
much as she would have liked when she gave birth to my nephew and she wasn’t
there for me in the way I wanted when I went through a patch of depression. We
both wanted to help each other but couldn’t.
Life’s joys and disappointments molded us and we
became stronger for ourselves and for each other. Sometimes she played the role of mother for
me; sometimes I played the role of mother for her. I was with her during a terrible flu, when we
thought she had had a stroke. I stayed with her children while she was taking a
course upstate. Every time I came out of surgery, Roberta was there waiting at
the foot of my bed, providing the same sense of sureness and security she had
when she held me on her lap in that picture of the two of us. As older adults,
we now check in with each other every day. It’s a pleasure when you don’t have
to explain your history or references to the person on the other end of the
phone.
Roberta has always wanted to be like our mother.
Frances (Berman) Hoffer knew how to be there for everyone she cared about.
Roberta, you are strong and quiet, capable and good. You provide love and
sustenance.
Together, we two seedlings have grown from young saplings to older-growth trees, drawing from our maternal, paternal, and sisterly hopes and wishes. We stand independently on our own, or lean on each other in a storm, or lean toward each other in an arch of joy. Thank you, sister, for wishing me into existence and standing side by side with me.
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