Gold

Mirror images.
That’s what we were. Two souls of humanity, bound together irrevocably. If I had looked closer, would I have seen you in me?

----
You called me Ellie-the-Grave, mocking the medieval times you studied in third grade, as though I were some nun-lady with a high-winged habit. You, air-and-light sister mine, laughed and smiled your perfection smile while I watched from behind the playground equipment.
----
<i>“C’mon Ellie, hurry up!” You beckon, the famous luminescent smile on your face. “We’ll surprise him!” I follow after you, as you inch forward from behind the car. Daddy stands in the background, his face wearied by life’s toil, wrinkles telling a tale of hardship.
“One, two, three,” you whisper to me. On the third count, we scream and jump out from behind the car, flailing our arms like wannabe windmills. Daddy’s face shows comical surprise. You fling your arms around him.
“Happy Birthday, Daddy!” You pull out the card you made, decorated with intricate swirls and gorgeous silver patterns, and twirl it in the air like a promise. My name is at the very bottom. </i>
----
Have I always hated you? I know I’ve been jealous of you and your effortless happiness. I’ve hated you. Do you know why?
It’s because you have inherent goodness in you. Oh yes, you’re selfish and spoiled, shallow, and carelessly cruel, but you don’t meant to be. You’re like the fickle sun, burning with a thousand flames, and turning to ashes everything you look upon. You’re the ocean, that sailors call treacherous and capricious, but love and adore. You’re the drug that everyone’s hooked on, the mile-high ride before the exponential plunge. You are everything that I am not, everything that I will never be.
You grab attention and don’t let go. You’re so self-centered that you draw others into your egotistical world. You’re off-handedly cruel and mean. You’re kind and empathetic. You took my picture years ago, called it your own, and expected me to rejoice in the praise you received. You are gold, enamored with your own brightness and worth, you’re Narcissus on his stream, you’re the peacock that cannot see past its own beauty. You’re all that everyone hopes to be.
And then there’s me. Shoved into the background, back into the corner with the dusty cards from Christmas four years ago. I couldn’t compete with your light, sister mine. The sun outshines all in its path, and leaves no room for any lesser light. Perhaps that’s why I’ve loved the moon better, always, for its light is less garish, less flauntingly bright. You are Apollo incarnate, and I am a lesser Artemis.
----
“I love the rain,” you say. “And it loves me.” You brush your gold hair out, admiringly, staring at your reflection like a love-struck Romeo (who in truth was fickle and shallow, just like you). I say nothing. Your statement is rhetorical, and like you, it loves to hear itself. You see my reflection in the mirror and suddenly recall that I’m there—your shadow copy. “Oh, don’t you worry, it loves you too,” you add with a giggle.
----
Light needs darkness to survive. There would be no light without dark. And I am your dark, your shadow, so that you can shine all the brighter. I can’t tell if it’s conscious on your part. But if it were, would it even matter? ‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’
You’re better than me and I mean better in a true, caring sort of way. You used to pick up hurt crows, regardless of whatever avian disease shocked the world at the time. You saved the earthworms from Mom’s garden trowel; you watered the flowers before yourself. You loved and laughed, brining light and joy to everyone around you. What was your secret happiness?
I was the lesser daughter in the first place. When visitors came, their eyes glided over me to rest on you. When Mom threw parties you were the cause: your perfect G.P.A., your ACT score, your birthday, your first boyfriend, your life. Dad was quieter but his approval mattered more to both of us. And there was always this pride in his eyes when he mentioned you, to Aunt Ellen and Uncle Tim, to his coworkers. I know they didn’t love me less. It was a matter of attracting attention, and you were the brighter light. What we notice is the flash of a prism in the sunlight, bright against the ceiling, not the prism itself. You soaked up attention and reflected it, making everyone feel good. I didn’t have your gift. I watched. I waited.
So I nursed this hatred, this horrible empty space inside me, through all the years. Perhaps it wasn’t actually hatred, merely an aching awe and desire to be like you. And because I couldn’t, it turned to a darker thing. Psychologists would say I hate you because others love you, and thus I am a petty and selfish person. It goes deeper than that.
On the day you left for college, left for Yale, the world grew just a little dimmer. Dad’s wrinkles grew a little deeper, Mom’s laughter a little rarer. There was this enormous party for you on the day before you left—so many people came to honor you. You laughed with them and missed my absence, for I went to run in the woods behind our house.
----<i>
“Where were you?”
“Running.”
“How come you didn’t stay?”
“Well, you looked like you were having enough fun and I’m sure I wasn’t needed.”
“Oh.”
----</i>
Maybe you were more hurt than you seemed. The next day you left.
Those years without you were strange. The sun no longer competed with every other light under the sky. The tension of living with you diminished, your bright shadow lessened. You still called home and then Mom and Dad celebrated, but you were gone. For the first time, peace. For the first time, self-worth. For the first time, love.
At night, the house grew quiet, the shadows long, the silence loud. No more late-night calls from your pale blue phone, no more frustrated phone bills at the end of each month. No more music seeping from under your beaded door. Peace reclaimed a domain long lost and forgotten.
I still hated you. I still remembered everything you did. Every egotistical comment, every self-centered action. But the hate dulled, the sharp edge of pain lacked sharpening. It became the pounding of an anvil against stubborn metal, instead of the swift rapier thrust from The Princess Bride we watched in eighth grade, the pounding of the ocean against craggy cliffs. Instead of flaring like bursts of volcanic fury, it subsided to freezing hatred, no less intense.
I gladly forgot about you. I took up my place as daughter, finally finding myself smart enough, kind enough, confident enough. Somewhere inside of me, I still wanted to be like you, just like I did when I was four and you were six.
Then a discovery. Maybe you meant for me to find it. Maybe you meant it as a gift for me, your hopeless, hapless, younger sister.
----<i>
January 15th
Today, I found out Michelle’s been using ecstasy. What should I do? I can’t let her become a drug addict, throw away her life, but I can’t betray her either! What will I do? Should I tell someone? I can’t lose my only friend.
January 17th
I told Mrs. Evans, who gave me such a look. Almost as if I made Michelle do it. I know she won’t let me see Michelle anymore—but it’s worth it. If Michelle stops taking drugs, then it’s worth it. Sadly now, I have no friends left. Everyone just smiles at me, all teeth, and I know they’re either jealous of me or hate me. School’s like walking into a den of hungry hyenas, willing to turn and rip each other apart. Their smiles never reach their eyes.</i>
----
You were more complicated than I thought. You sensed jealousy, anger, and hatred and each blow tore you apart. You loved being called beautiful, happy, confident, wonderful, the best…but so do we all. We are all vainglorious beings. You were more complex, more humble, more like me than I thought. You had doubts too, and insecurities.
But I still, still, hated you. Old habits die hard, and you were still too self-centered. Somehow, however, I began to respect you. I realized, I never really knew you. Seventeen years, we shared the same house, the same food, even the same clothes sometimes, and you were a stranger before my eyes. I never walked a mile in your shoes. Perhaps, to see a hypocrite, I only needed to look into the mirror.
I graduated proudly, head of my class. You didn’t call. Unwillingly, I was crushed. No matter how I denied it, somewhere deep inside, you were still my adored, emulated big sister. Please call, please… Say you’re sorry, just say it.
The phone stayed silent. Tantalus, I know your pain. Another flame to fan the fire of my hate. Drowning in a wave of self-pity, I succumbed to my loathing and bitterness opened its arms to me. Surely, you were having a wonderful, perfect time in Yale, and you’d forgotten everyone. Your obvious self-involvement pulled you off your pedestal. The last straw.
---<i>
“Listen, dear, something’s happened. Your sister’s dropped out of college. She’s called and said she’s marrying some man named Kevin Lindest, and we’re all invited to her wedding party.” </i>
---

You were nineteen, a freshman in college. Mom’s voice was so full of pain, disappointment, and disgust. You, her golden child, were tarnished tarnished. Only later did I learn of your tears at Yale, your fear, your desperation. You were pregnant.
And you got married. I thought your face looked thinner, paler than I remembered, but your smile was the same. Kevin was a good man. You’d chosen a hard path, and I didn’t envy you. I’d just gotten my letter of acceptance to Johns Hopkins. I was on a good path, to a medical degree, to comfort, and pride in my work.
You wore a hastily ordered wedding dress in a shade of off-white. Your stomach was barely rounding, but you held your hand over it with a maternal air. Yours is a difficult future but I’m certain you can pull through.
Kevin shakes my hand firmly. He’s All-American type, tall and broad of shoulder. When he gets older, he’ll have a potbelly and a bald spot—can you love him then, Kate? You look at him with adoration still fresh in your eyes. Will it die over the years? Will his love-filled look dim?
Will you become a housewife, straying towards the plump end as you age? Will you pack your children lunches in brown paper bags, then sweep, vacuum, and wash all day? Can you be satisfied with that life? I can’t. But Kate, this I’ve learned: my hatred is gone. I can see you clearly now. Maybe it was something of being young. The brightness that surrounded you dazzled my eyes. Maybe I was hating something that didn’t exist.
You are a lesser human now, but one that I can relate to, one I can love. You make mistakes. You’re older, and quieter. You are Apollo’s descendant now, wearing borrowed finery. Your light tends towards the domestic side. You’re no longer beautiful, perfect, shining.
I can’t help but feel pity for you. Where can hatred exist, if pity and an image of yourself replaces it? My hate is gone, ebbing away with the ocean’s tide. You’re still a stranger to me, but maybe it’s time to start building trust, a bridge instead of a wall.
You and Kevin cut the cake, laughing. It’s not your carefree laugh anymore. There’s experience and wisdom in it too. You’ve become a mortal.
As people dance and talk, for once you’re being ignored. You’re not the center of attention—your husband’s being congratulated by his bachelor friends. The music floats over your head. Your eyes scan the crowd nervously.
I’m in the back, standing next to a man you won’t recognize. I can feel the moment when our eyes connect. You’re worried that I still hate you—you knew I did. That surprises me. You loved me. You walk this way, apprehensively. Your eyes are fearful that I will turn from you. But I walk to meet you, and the years float away. The sounds diminish, and grow unimportant. I look at you fully, Kate. And there, I face you, sister to sister.

“I’ve missed you.”