Sisters

The news has been heavy lately. Really heavy.

There was a big part of me that wanted to write about it because it genuinely kept me up at night. I couldn't stop putting myself in the position of the victims and their families and wondering, what if? What if that was me or my friends or my sister or brother. My mum, my partner, my child. To have your life taken away in a place like Australia while doing something so ordinary as going to the shops is horrific and unimaginable. Except that we don't have to imagine it anymore, it happened. In one of the most well-known and publicised suburbs in the country.  

Sometimes it's not a disease or a car crash or a freak accident. Sometimes terrible things happen on what should be 'just another Saturday' at the shops. So if it all feels a little too close to home, that's because it is. My beautiful, caring, hilariously funny and thoughtful friend should have been at Bondi Westfield with her fiancé and two children that day. They made a last-minute decision not to go. If I'm honest, that's probably the thought that keeps me up the most. What if they did?

Nothing I say or write is going to comfort anyone directly affected by this senseless act. But if you're reading this as my friend or someone I don't know who happened across my account, let us be reminded that it could have been any of us that day. And if that's not a wakeup call to be thankful for every single second that we get on this spinning lump of dirt, I don't know what is.

I’ve spent the last few hours going back and forth over what I should write after my travelling/holiday hiatus. Should I write about my near-death experience with the Indian Ocean, getting crop dusted by everyone going to the toilet on our flight, drunk buggy rides through the never-ending resort or the best 3am room service meal I’ve ever had? Maybe I should write about something more serious like the fragility of life, limited second chances and the speed at which things can unexpectedly change.

I decided that if things feel heavy for me as someone who wasn’t affected by what happened in Sydney, perhaps they feel heavy for you too. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to weigh any of us down even more. But whilst I will definitely tell you about getting crop dusted on the plane, I’ll save the Bali adventure for another day. Right now I’m going to reflect on life and one of the things that for me, make it really special. That thing being the people that we love. And for me more specifically, my sister.

When I was born my brother was so disappointed that I was a girl he asked my Mum to put me back. As if I had been taken off a dusty shelf and placed conveniently in the bassinet of our home. He was in fact so upset that my Mum used to lock the door to my room in case he tried to give me away to someone on the street. Luckily for me, a chubby little toddler with big brown eyes and the cutest face you’ve ever seen took quite a liking to her baby sister. From there on in I had my very own protector who was adamant that I stay. There would be no refunds or exchanges, I was a final sale kind of item.

I should probably add that my 3-year-old sister wasn’t tasked with standing staunch at my crib to make sure our brother didn’t chuck me in the Taro garden or anything. Obviously my parents were pretty keen to keep me too.  

My sister didn’t have to like me. She didn’t have a lot of reason to. She was the middle child and I was the youngest. The baby of the family. The spoilt last born. I came in and fucked shit up, just like all last borns do. We get away with everything – including flipping the bird to our Mum on the train when we’re chucking a temper tantrum. As all PNG kids would know, that’s a crime punishable by death in our households. But rather than give me the hiding of a lifetime, my Mum was in so much shock that she laughed. The injustice of it all had my sister in quite a tizzy, “Aren’t you going to hit her?!?!”.

During one of Mum’s many games at the Boroko Squash Club, I’d decided it was an opportune time to shit my pants. With Mum busy smashing it out on the court and my upset stomach starting World War III in my polka dot bike shorts, my sister once again found herself in a precarious position. Not exactly old enough to troubleshoot such a problem, she did the only thing that came to mind. Took me to the toilet, cleaned me up as best she could and buried my underwear (that were probably haemorrhaging shit) deep into my Mum’s squash bag. It should come as no surprise then that as my Mum picked up her bag to take us home, the smell of her childs butthole wafted out of it in a swift and offensive manner. “Oh my God! Why does it smell like shit in here??”.

As the years rolled on, my sister’s protective instincts never wavered. When she got her first job she’d take me to the movies or buy me lunch. I was always included when she went to a friends house, all of them knowing that where Katie goes, Jasmine follows. We were a package deal when we absolutely didn’t have to be. I was without a doubt the embarrassing and annoying little sister. Shadowing her to movie marathons and shopping centres when I’m sure she would have liked a little space to herself, particularly when we already shared a bedroom. And though we bickered and fought and she could be mean as all big sisters are, no one else was allowed to mess with me. She always made that known. Eventually when I got a little bigger I would return the favour – calling out a girl who was starting to get a bit lippy. I’ll admit my methods were a little uncouth but this larger girl said something not very nice to Katie so I yelled out, “At least she’s not fat!”. Being deeply offended (and rightly so), this girl charged at me with full pace and grabbed me around the neck. Katie swung into action and ripped off her bike stand, proceeding to chase the strangler in an attempt to give her a taste of her own medicine. Safe to say we never saw that girl again.

There have been a lot of funny moments in our lives, a lot of hard ones too. Life circumstances meant my sister had to grow up much faster than she deserved. Worrying about things young girls shouldn’t have to, taking the reigns when no one else could. I look back on the last 34 years and know, without a shadow of a doubt, that Katie has been the one true constant. A fact I’m sure so many can relate to – if your parents lived and worked overseas, travelled often or were wilfully absent, your siblings hopefully stepped in and stepped up as best they could. Cooking dinner, walking you to school and basically just trying to keep you alive until you were old enough to take care of yourself. Doing a job they never actually asked for but were lumped with anyway.  

There is this thing about having a sister that I can’t quite put my finger on. I look around at my friends, many of whom have sisters, and I know they understand exactly what I mean. Whether it makes them happy because they relate or sad because they desperately wish they could. Not all sister-ships are as harmonious as mine and not all sisters share the same bond that Katie and I do. And what I witness in most of those scenarios is an extremely deep longing for that to change. For jealousy to subside, for an olive branch to extend, for things to be different, for the clock to turn back, for forgiveness and truth and peace and a clean slate. I know there are some women who wish they could pick up the phone and ask their sister for advice, bitch about their husband, cry about their saggy tits, complain about their kids, talk about that mole from over yonder or sit on the phone and say absolutely nothing while you both scroll Instagram. I see the overwhelming emotional obstacles between them and it makes me grateful for what I have. Really, really grateful. When I need something, when the chips are down and life is kicking my proverbial ass, I pull up the Favourites on my phone and call the person at the top of the list. My big sister.

So to the chubby little girl with the big brown eyes and the cutest face I’ve ever seen – I love you. Thank you for everything.

With love, always

J