And It's Cold in the Water Tonight

Tonight I spent hours talking with my oldest sister, just the two of us on the patio as the sun set.  "Hey, do you remember that time that that kid tried to beat you up?"  "I remember once, you gave me some caramels when I was in kindergarten, and I was so proud of them, but the teacher took them."  "Remember how mom and dad used to argue downstairs but we could hear them through the vents?"  "Haha, yeah, I do, and remember the day that dad drove home his Scout for the first time?"  "Oh, do I!  He was so proud of it.  Do you remember the trip that we had to do in it after that?"  "OMG, yes!"

I pretty much didn't know what I was doing or where I was going after college, and a long time thereafter.  What direction I have now, I credit my family to giving me.  Not because they told me anything, or directed me anywhere, but just because they were there and constant and always willing to have me back when I returned from whatever crazy notion I'd adopted.  Like a frame of reference, an anchor when all else seems lost.  And adulthood is basically an extended narrative of loss, in many ways.

I'm lucky to have a sister -- not just one, but two.