The Window

It never gets easier, watching your younger sister cry. 

 

Not when the playground split her leg open causing 12 stitches. Not when her middle school circle iced her out like strangers. And especially not when her first love shattered her heart. 

 

I watched her grow up like one watches seasons change from their bedroom window: shocked at how fast time passes, in awe of nature’s refusal to stay still. Defiantly, the earth keeps spinning, the weather changing, and my sister growing. All of it unfolding right under my nose. 

 

Even without a plane of glass between us, I have always felt like I have been watching her life through a window. Present and aware, but entirely separate. A friendly face looking in, a cheerleader shouting encouragement, but never an active participant. Always a few feet behind, yearning for a closeness I could not define. 

 

Now, I am watching her through an entirely new window, unsure of how to comfort her. 

 

This time, her tears don’t spark the fierce protectiveness of an elder sibling determined to fix what hurts. No, this time I am overcome with the emotion of envy. 

 

Because as she packs up her senior year apartment to embark upon a new chapter, I know she had a college experience worth grieving. Deep friendships, late nights studying, even later nights dancing, a cozy campus, reckless experiments with adulthood, newfound freedom, mistakes that taught invaluable lessons, confidence earned, and priceless memories made. All of it, a kaleidoscope of moments that turned my younger sister from my shadow into a fully grown woman of her own. 

 

I bear witness to streams of gratitude, fear, and grief slide down her face as I stand outside on what she calls "The Patio.”

 

The Patio is exactly what it sounds like, a slab of concrete, except this one connects two rundown apartment buildings in the Bronx where Fordham students congregate. The Patio has paid homage to countless parties, beer pong tournaments, tipsy conversations shared over a sunrise, and sobs as students mourn the memories that can’t be replicated anywhere besides the sticky, alcohol ridden concrete beneath their feet. 

 

It looks jarring in the daytime. Flies buzzing around discarded red cups. Glass bottles and pizza boxes memorialized in corners. A left shoe and sweatshirt hanging over the railing. Evidence of their last hurrah. Proof they lived here.

 

Proof they lived. 

 

As I maneuver around the archive of my sister’s last 4 years, she comes barreling out of her apartment door, beelining straight to me. As she collapses in my arms, yearning for her big sister to string together some semblance of comfort in her words, I find myself speechless. Lost between the platitudes of “don’t cry because it's over, smile because it happened” and “shh… it’s okay.” 

 

When the answer descends out of thin air and lands in my heart.

 

I nuzzle my face in her neck, squeeze her tight, and whisper, “I love you.” 

 

And this time, not through glass.