Warning: This is a sentimental essay, and you will just have to deal with it.
I have a little sister named Emily. Today she’s coming to visit, and she’s bringing me a bird named Sunny.
We hated each other when we were little.
Emily and I had epic battles. There was the Toilet Paper War. (It was as embarrassing as it sounds.) I locked her out of the house once. We even yelled at each other because she liked Mr. Ed and I was obsessed with Star Trek.
My father said we were like night and day. Black and white. If Emily said yes, I had to say no. In short, we were opposites and no one ever thought we would get along.
But now Emily’s coming to visit today, and she’s bringing me a bird named Sunny.
What happened to those two little girls who wrestled each other to see who got to sit in the front seat of the car? Did we mellow over a period of fifteen years?
I don’t know. We are still very different. Emily can sleep outside with nothing but a sleeping bag between her and millions of eight-legged creatures. Not me. I can’t even sit on a patch of grass for five seconds because I hate bugs that much.
Emily and I are not the same person.
I like garlic. She likes mushrooms. When we were little, a mushroom and garlic misunderstanding was enough to launch a massive Barbie-throwing event.
I’d love to tell you that as soon as I turned eighteen, Emily and I shook hands and signed a peace treaty. But we didn’t. Our old anger simmered long into our early twenties. In my mind, I still thought of her as “That Crummy Mushroom Lover.”
But we eventually got sick of the grudge. Our fights became like echoes over the mountains. The farther we got from childhood, the less we wanted to engage in bouts of sister bashing.
I found myself wanting to like Emily, and I didn’t know why. She still liked Mr. Ed better than me, didn’t she?
I began to wonder if Emily and I could tolerate each other for an extended period of time. So I invited her on a trip to London with me. I figured we’d be stuck together for six days in a hotel room. We’d either kill each other or we’d have fun.
Let me remind you that Emily is coming to visit today and she’s bringing me a bird named Sunny.
During those six days in London, the last of our childhood frost melted away. Why? Because Emily and I have the same smile. I know that sounds trivial, but it’s the first adult thing I noticed about my sister. We both have happy, open, and honest smiles.
I began to realize, “If she can smile like me, maybe we have more in common than I thought.”
Everywhere we went in London, the English people asked us if we were twins. We’d laugh and say “Of course not”. But from that moment on I was seeing something new in Emily. I was seeing myself.
Emily may be a Mushroom Lover, but she’s also my mirror. She looks like me. She remembers the same high school, the same kitchen table, and the same wonderful grandparents. But Emily is more to me than a bunch of childhood memories. She’s a good person. When I look at her, I see a woman people can trust.
People like Emily.
They don’t like her because she eats mushrooms and owns a horse. They like her because she’ll spend two hours in a gift shop searching for just the right present for someone she loves. They like her because she’ll let ten people get on a bus before she does. They like her because she listens and laughs and would never intentionally hurt anyone.
And people think we are twins.
That’s a compliment I accept with honor. I love you, Emily. Thanks for growing up with me.
