A Girl and Her Dress

A recent visit home for the holidays was full of rest and relaxation (despite the mild-chaos of shopping for gifts), and quality time spent with my parents. Nothing extraordinary – just the simple life that I have missed since the day I left home with my wings spread and my dreams big. I dream big still, and I won’t stop spreading my wings until I’ve learned to fly, but I am not afraid to admit that I still seek comfort in the nest my parents built for me and I may not be able to fly yet, but that’s what airplanes are for. Grateful for a break, I sought refuge in my little hometown at a place where I call home. Like always, it felt so good until I realized something was missing and kept me reminded why I live in Alabama in the first place.

My room, looking nothing like it did during my high school years, still brings me comfort and a place I can sit and reflect on my journey thus far. Tucked away in the corner of our charming little Floridian-style house that holds bounties worth of memories is my favorite little bedroom. Next to it is my sister’s bedroom, which also received a face-lift from Mom, and it holds an antique book case full of wedding planning books, nursing texts, and wedding photographs. Though my sister’s not in it anymore, it still holds little pieces that she left behind as if they were a symbol for her ability to leave a mark wherever she goes. My bed that seems much smaller than it did when I picked it out in kindergarten still nurtures me to fall into a deep sleep where I feel safe and protected. A cup of coffee with biscuits and gravy is more than just a good Southern breakfast when you’re sitting in your own kitchen with your parents and passing around the sections of the morning paper. In little moments like those, I found myself looking up at the chair where my sister usually is seated and having to remind myself that she no longer gets to come home with me for a long weekend or a Fall Break anymore. As happy as she is in her newlywed years, I can’t help but feel a little sorry for myself and wishing she was sharing a cup of coffee with me in those moment.

Home is where I feel the most secure, where I’m most familiar, and where I know I keep a big piece of my heart. But as each day turns into months and months turn into years, I realize more and more that home isn’t as sweet when one of its main characters is missing. I found myself, more than just once, lingering into my sister’s room and opening up the bookcase that told so many stories of her life. I looked through high school yearbooks, read what I wrote to her and she wrote to me on the autograph pages, and found it amusing how we did this out of being best friends rather than sisters. I know she loved me then just as I know she loves me now, so it wasn’t a required act of sisterhood to write a page worth of sentiments in my yearbook. As my best friend though, it was required. It would be devastating to look back eight years later at my freshmen yearbook to discover that I had forgotten to have my best friend sign it. As I grabbed four years worth of yearbooks, I knew without a doubt that her ‘reserved’ page would be filled. I let my eyes venture over to the nursing and pharmacology textbooks that sat in the enclosed case and admired her smarts and academic success.

I looked at a picture of her and her husband at their wedding reception and admired her ability to forgive, how she has always followed her heart, and how he’s always looked at her like she was heaven-sent.

I studied the picture and let my mind drift back to her wedding day and I remembered how I felt when our Dad lifted her veil. Her dress was perfectly elegant and fitting for her style and simplicity. Her smile was as big as her heart and her eyes twinkled with genuineness. It may seem as if I am biased, but many would agree, she was the most perfect looking bride I have ever seen. She was chic, graceful, elegant, and classical in her wedding gown. She wasn’t over the top; she was herself. She’s never dressed in anything other than her tasteful style and she kept this true on her special day. She wore a strand of pearls around her neck that lay as if they were drawn on her. The same pearls she wears on Sunday morning to worship, the same ones that lied perfectly on her neck throughout college, and the ones that she’ll probably pass down to her daughter or grand-daughter one day. The lace on her dress beautifully matched the freckles that spotted her face and topped her shoulders. A little Florida girl who never lost her Southern charm was all grown up. Just like she kept her Southern charm, she kept her authenticity. She was the most real and truthful bride I have ever seen. If she wore anything other than her off-white lace and her single strand of pearls, than she wouldn’t have been herself. And trust me, nothing is more beautiful than being yourself when you’re someone like my sister.

Her groom, dressed in a simple black-tie, was charming as expected. His Charleston blood and Southern upbringing go hand in hand with my sister making perfect sense out of their love story. If the bride were marrying anyone other than her high school sweetheart and her first and only love, then the bride wouldn’t have been my sister. Her style – her ‘look’ – wouldn’t have been the same if her story were anything other than near perfection. My sister would never be compatible or suitable for marriage with a Yankee. She would never be compatible with a ‘pretty boy.’ Her compatibility stood the test of time just as her authentic and traditional ways have given her poise and elegance. My sister never strayed from the straight and narrow path that fate paved for her – her soul mate would be God fearing, athletic, Southern, and supportive. The fact that she met him at the ripe old age of fifteen was seemingly not out of the ordinary. Girls who are like my sister are the true Princess-type. The proper lady who stays true to herself and is able to handle the events of each day with wise decisions, class, and poise which leads her to a pleasant and content journey through life.

As I stared at the pictures of my beautiful sister-bride, I realized not all beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Some beauty is in the eye of everyone she knows. She’s undeniably beautiful. Her pretty face compliments her grace. Her loving heart pours out into her relationships with family and friends. Her freckles reflect innocence but her personality is real rather than fake. Her sweet side is sincere, not a role she plays to win people over. People are drawn to her, omitting any need for an alter-ego or a second character to make people love her. Her tough side is a boldness that comes across softer than the fierce and devious types. I don’t know if I could convince anyone that really knows her that she wasn’t all of these things I’ve described because her soul is so genuine, her strength is unwavering, and her confidence is natural. She’s my sister, and in the eyes of this beholder – she is perfect.

She’s someone I have every opportunity to hate, envy, or be jealous of, yet I love her more than life itself. I wiped a tear from my cheek as I closed the bookcase that kept drawing me to her room that weekend and wondered if it was a sad tear or a happy tear. Was it sad because I’ve failed to be like her or was it happy because I can call her my own? Was it sad because she wasn’t there or was it happy because I know she always will be there? Was it sad because I’ve disappointed her or was it happy because she never turned her back on me? Maybe it was all of these things.

She’s made mistakes and suffered through bumps in the road like we all have, yet she is perfect in my eyes. I’m almost certain the tear was neither happy nor sad. It was purely out of sentimental gratitude for the feelings of joy that only sisterhood can bring. I wish all women could understand what being a sister and having a sister is like, but I admire those women for their independence and ability to make it through some of life’s painful twists without the perfect sister. I never realized, so intensely, how lucky I am that it was just her and I. I would hate to have to share our strong sisterly bond with anyone else. She’s that good of an older sister that I am glad I get to keep her all to myself. However, I sometimes wish I could make an impact in a baby sister’s life the way she has made an impact in mine. I wasn’t dealt that hand but being the younger sister rather than the oldest doesn’t mean I can’t tell her more often how lucky I am. It doesn’t excuse me from making sure she’s aware of how much I idolize and look up to her. I was given a sister, which was a blessing big enough. I could have been given a different sister. My biggest blessing was being given a sister like Ashley.

Just as I am jealous of her natural grace and charming personality, I’m pretty positive other younger sisters out there are jealous of me because of who my older sister is.

-BJJ-
The ‘Other’ Sister