I was only three years old when I started dance. My mom asked me if I’d rather do gymnastics, but I told her I wanted to be like my big sister, Lauren.  One day, we went to the dance store and bought pink tights, a pink leotard with a skirt attached,  and ballet and tap shoes.  I wore my outfit on the way home, with a tap shoe on one foot, and ballet on the other. I think about it now, and I can’t help but realize how long ago this was.  I can’t help but wonder why I remember this in such a detailed way. I came home in my get up and my big sister sat on the floor in front of me and smiled. She was eleven then, but she loved me (and still does) more than I’d ever be able to comprehend. I guess she needed me, and I wanted her to.  I went to dance class and pretended to be her. I was polite and smiled a lot, I knew how to courtesy well. I was always so excited to learn because I knew the more I did, the more I’d be like her.  During recitals, she would always be the one to do my hair and makeup; I didn’t want anyone else to. Fast forward 10 years later, competition season was the same.  Pictures of us on the bathroom floor with big goofy smiles on our faces, I was the happiest that I could be. I would follow her everywhere. I went to the store with her and Mom, just because I wanted to be with her. The funny thing is, I think she knew.

  As our years advanced, I still followed her like a puppy. She was full of common sense and understanding, I just didn’t know what that was yet.  During summer days, Dad would set up the pool. We wanted to make sure we were hot enough when we got into the pool, so Lauren had my other sister, Alyssa, and I go on runs. Once we arrived at home, we scurried and rushed and wiggled to put our swimsuits on so that we wouldn’t get used to the air conditioning. Sometimes it worked, but it was rare. We’d jump into the pool as fast as we could and put the water into a riot.  We had fun summertime traditions in that pool. We would dance along side the edges and play underwater games that I would be the judge of the winner (since it was hard for me to go under at the time).  Afterwards, we would go inside and warm up with popcorn or cookies. Lauren loved popcorn and cookies, but she never wanted as much as I thought she should have. I always offered. I always wanted her to be happy. And cookies, at the time, were the source of happiness for me.  Time passed and she began to drive. She drove a big suburban at the time (before receiving a Pontiac as her first official car). She loved it.  It was our old family car, two toned, and squeaky.  I would sit in the back, in the middle of the couch like seats.  That way, I could see her through the rearview mirror. And if I was lucky, she would look back, and I’d watch the under of her eyes rise into a smile. She loved me, and I wanted her to.

Things started to get rough. She got sick. She did bad things to herself and never wanted me to know.  I wanted to know that my favorite person was okay. But, she went away. She got stuck. She came to see me anyways.  I wrote her letters as much as I could, because when she went away, there was no other way to communicate. But I couldn’t write very well. I felt lost. She was the person that protected me and sat with me at bedtime when I believed in monsters.  She was my ghost buster, my night light, and my big sister.  But she came back; she still wasn’t well. But I still loved her, and she wanted me to.  She got better, happier. What was wrong had ended, and she came through. She was home. Things were better, easier. She took care of me again. She was my best friend again. I told her about school and my new friends. I told her when I stopped thinking boys were yucky (but the still had cooties).  I even remember reading a book that had a character with her name in it.

Then, tragedy struck my heart. My parents announced that they were getting a divorce. I was in Lauren’s lap when it happened. I could feel the pain through her skin. She had already known, they had already told her. But I hadn’t known, and she didn’t want to me to.  I was depressed and hurt. I had a therapist at the age of seven. She never helped. I wanted my sister.  She had me in her office and played games with me, asked me how I was, but I didn’t care. I wanted my sister.

Almost ten years passed, and here we are now. I’m still stuck in Des Moines, and she’s a beautiful image of passion waving through Chicago. She’s organic to herself and her beliefs. She is strong-minded and deeply caring.  She taught me an incredible amount, and still continues to. She explains through her past that no matter how hard your life becomes, what you love should always stay. She demonstrates through her past that no matter how low you have become, you should always climb your way back up.  I have known this person for only 16 years of her twenty-four, maybe that’s not such a big difference. I wish I would of known her sooner so maybe I could have seen her really grow. I wish I would of known her sooner so that instead of growing up next to her, I would of grown up with her. But I have time to know her more. 

I’m sixteen, and I started out driving a big suburban that was our second family car and of course, is squeaky.  Just last week I received my first official car, a Pontiac. It’s been 16 years and I still feel the need to follow her, since she made her way through so well. So long past and I still think of her. My favorites are memories of her smiling green, green eyes through the rear-view mirror.  I don’t see her as much I’d like to anymore, but when I do we go back to our old ways. Because I still love her, and she still wants me to.