My American Sister

This past weekend I had a staycation with my sister. She is from San Diego so thankfully it was pretty warm and sunny otherwise she’d be shivering like one of those racing Greyhounds in Mexico. My sister is taller, with the Daly aquiline nose (versus the very Gnome-ish Doyle nose) lean limbs, and wolf-yellow eyes. She looks my age really which isn’t entirely fair but I can make her laugh so am not without my charms. She surprised me with decades old photography work that I had done in school (and had been thought lost all this time) and it was a flashback to those years I spent in a darkroom or out late at night with my camera trying to get the perfect night shot of Vancouver, my Dock Martens and leather jacket on with my bobbed black Louise Brooks styled hair hanging over the tripod. We reminisced about my time lived in San Diego and how I must truly have looked like a Martian back then to those southern Californians, with my pale pre-Twilight skin, red lips, and fishnets lining up for cheap booze in Liquorland for a weekend carousing poolside with Monica and her then husband Bob.

It was a lot of fun but times are very different now that we are older. We commiserate about aging and she offers remedies more effective than any doctor–because we share the same genes and there is no one else in this world I can say that about as I can my only sister. Foot cramps? Yep. Dry eyes? Check. “Aging sucks” I announce. She laughs and resolutely asserts she is fighting it all the way. And I will too. Here’s to many, many, many more years of health and a lot more miles of travel and adventures before both of us are too old to read what seat we’re sitting in.

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