When I was 3, I got a little sister. I was okay with her until she started getting all the attention. Full of feelings I didn’t understand, I took a pencil and colored our white bathroom countertops solid black. When asked if I had done it, I replied, “No. The baby did it.”

I couldn’t figure out how Mom knew it was me. It never occurred to me that the baby couldn’t get out of the crib, much less climb on the cabinet and color with a pencil. The three-year-old brain doesn’t understand these things. However, what I do remember more than blaming “the baby” was that I didn’t get in trouble. Mom sat me down and told me how much she loved me and how I could never be replaced. Here I was, trying to deny the incident and she was telling me she loved me. That did not compute in my little girl mind. She hugged me. She sat with me. She talked to me about how special I was. She demonstrated grace. It is one of my first and most powerful memories.

When she told me to go clean up the cabinet, I went willingly, glad for the chance to make it right. She showed me how to clean it off and I did it. (Though I am sure she had to finish the job once I was done.) This event made quite an impression on me which I carry with me even now. I felt I was special…and that my baby sister was, too. I learned that it was okay for both of us to be special, though we were each distinctive from one another.

I coveted my sister’s naturally curly hair. (Except for when Mom was trying to brush out her tangles.) My hair was straight as a stick. I loved to read. Melinda hated it. I was outside with Dad traipsing around the woods. She was in the kitchen cooking with Mom. She made biscuits. I collected wild flowers. She played with Barbies, I chewed their feet. Our grandmother taught us to sew. Melinda made beautiful things. Mine fell apart. She was a cheerleader. I was not. She did calligraphy. I painted. She moved with poise. I fell down a lot. She dressed fashionably. I wore flannel and sweats. She became a nurse, I became a teacher. She is a specialist. I am a generalist.

We weren’t all differences though. We loved to make up stories and pretend with my grandmother’s scarves. We road horses. We created a fire museum when our house burned. We sledded down the driveway in the snow. We skied together. We swam together. We went to summer camp together. We both became professional helpers. We are both mothers.

However, we have done nothing together more so than the dementia journey with Mom and Dad. We have had each other’s back. On good days, we celebrate together. On bad ones, we lift each other up. We have taken up pottery together as a tribute to Mom, but also as a way to shift mental focus for a few hours a week away from the hard journey. Dementia has forced us to use Melinda’s medical expertise and my way with words to navigate this path…as a team. This trip no one wants to take has bonded our hearts together in ways we never could have imagined.

Today is Melinda’s birthday. I am ever so grateful for the little sister I got all those years ago. In the last few years, we have learned to lean on and be there for each other like never before. I will treasure our sisterhood which can never be broken, but also our friendship which will always be chosen. Happy Candle Day!! I love you, my sister!  Always and forever.