My little sister started her senior year yesterday. It’s her last first day of high school. She’s 17, but I can’t help but look at her like the three-year-old I once knew who never smiled or the eight-year-old with gap teeth and pigtails. Sometimes, I can’t help but look at her the way I have my whole life: like a child.
It’s weird to think of children growing up. It’s already hard enough to accept that I’ve grown up. I remember sharing beds in hotel rooms and racing to the bathroom after school to decide who would shower first. I remember arguing over which One Direction member we were pretending to be married to (she always had Zayn, and I had Harry). I remember when we shared a room, and her bed was only a few feet away from mine, how we would cover for each other if we had our phones after curfew.
My earliest memory is the first day my sister came into the world. I remember bringing my mom soup after she was born. I was two years old. That’s all I remember. My next memory was also of her when we were a little older. My great-grandfather was in the green chair he used to sit in to watch TV.
I don’t remember my life before my sister was in it, and I know it’s because I was too young even to have memories, but I like to believe that it’s because my life didn’t begin until she was around.
I remember when she left her preschool in Puerto Rico, and my friends and I would make excuses to walk by the kindergarten classrooms to see my little sister during her lunchtime. I remember the navy blue polo dress, white socks, and Mary Jane’s. I remember her pigtails and how excited she was to see me. She used to put ketchup on her rice, and I used to scrunch my nose at her in disgust. She doesn’t eat her rice with ketchup anymore, thank God.
I remember when we moved to Miami and how we would ride our Razor scooters to school. We were the two curly-headed new girls from an island. She was just a first grader; the kids her age were nicer, and she quickly made friends. I was in the fourth grade, and I remember envying her for having after-school plans that first week of classes. I envied how she didn’t need summer tutoring to catch up with all the kids whose education was ahead of mine. I remember how hard it was to accept that I no longer lived on the island, and she didn’t seem to struggle with it. I envied her for that, too.
I remember discovering that her friends called her Juju, spelled with Js. I remember telling her that she shouldn’t let her friends call her that, that she’s supposed to be Yuyi with Ys. I remember looking around at my family and wondering why they disagreed with me and why they wouldn’t stop her from changing. I was the one who didn’t want to change. I was the one who couldn’t accept that Yuyi and I weren’t just Yuyi and I anymore. She was growing up. She got to decide what they’d call her.
Juju stuck.
I remember giving her my uniforms in elementary school when I transferred schools. I remember her donating them when she went to her new school.
I remember knowing that Yuyi and I would never go to school together again. It’s so strange that I only know her at home. I used to be able to wave at her between classes. Ask how she was during recess. I used to be able to boast that I could ride shotgun and send glares at her through the rearview mirror when she kicked my seat in rebellion. Now, I only know her at home, when she’s in the living room or doing her makeup in the bathroom. When we have family dinners, or she needs a ride to a friend’s house. It’s strange to think that we’ve lived such different lives when we spent so much time right next to each other.
I stop and think about how we used to be children together. We were little girls once, with ribbons in our hair and laughing at our parents behind their backs together. I think about my favorite memories with my sister and how many of them are the moments I’m watching her from afar. Her dance recital in eighth grade that I watched from the back row. Her volleyball tournaments and soccer games are from the sidelines.
My sister started her senior year of high school yesterday.
Soon, when I come home, I won’t be coming home to her; I’ll be coming home with her. There will be no one to make sure our bathroom is clean. Her bed will be as empty as mine is nine months out of the year. I can’t keep telling her stories about college because she’ll have her own.
It is so strange to think about. I’m thinking of my little sister, who’ll always be a little girl to me. She’ll always be small; I will always have to protect her, even if I have to defend myself from her sometimes. I’ll remember all the phases, like when she loved Minecraft or Playmobil or was convinced that dancing was her true calling.
I’m an older sister, naturally sentimental, and I will always think I know better because I’ve gone through more than she has. She’ll never see it that way, and that’s okay with me. She is younger, and she’s not meant to see it that way. I know half of the advice I give her is in one ear and out the other, but she can never say I don’t give her any. She can villainize me all she wants for playing devil’s advocate, but no one will ever understand her upbringing as I do. Nobody will be there for her like I will.
She wore a ruffled blue dress when she played Miss Hannigan in her fifth-grade production of Annie. I went to the dress rehearsal because I couldn’t attend the show. She sang her heart out. She told me how happy she was that I was there. She was so kind. I was so proud.
The night before I left for college, she cried in my bed. Up until then, I didn’t know she was even phased by the fact I was leaving. She’s got a fantastic poker face. I think that was the night I realized just how similar we were. It took leaving to recognize our roles in each other’s lives. She is my perfect opposite and my mirror all at once. I look at her, and I see myself in a different life. She’s my sister and will enrage me occasionally, but I will always effortlessly love her.
I won’t lie and say my sister and I are close. Sometimes, she feels very far away, but I don’t question my love for her whenever I see her. She keeps her life to herself for the most part, just like I do mine. I am not the first person she runs to to tell things. We don’t call each other as much as we should. When I left home, I realized how much I missed her. I learned how frustrating it is to know that someone understands why you are the way you are, and you can’t just walk into their room like you used to.
I hope things are different this type around. Growing up makes everyone a little more sentimental and makes it easier to romanticize the little things. I hope she has a revelation like this when it’s her turn to move out of the house. When she only gets to come back for holidays or the occasional long weekend. When summers aren’t summer anymore, and you’re away from home longer than anticipated. I hope this year treats her well and she makes memories that she’ll call me to talk about. I hope she’ll think of me as a best friend.
I hope this year, distance makes the heart grow fonder. I hope nostalgia takes over her brilliant brain now and then, and she calls me just to call me.
We might be blood, but what makes us sisters is beyond that. You will always know how I became me, and I will always know how you became you. Nobody will ever understand how wonderful and chaotic it was in our four walls like we do. I miss my twin bed with red polka dots on it beside you. I miss eating breakfast with you at the countertop. I miss your Mary Jane’s and your penny loafers, too. I miss you all the time.
When you are 20, and I am 23.
When you are 40, and I am 43.
When you are 60, and I am 63.
When you are old, and I am gone.
You’ll always be my little sister.
You will always be Yuyi.