The Melancholy of Distance
My sister lives a mere 7.8 miles away. That’s walkable, right? Of course, I’d have to pack snacks and maybe a tent for a nap. After all, it’s over 15 thousand steps. A trek, admittedly, outside my comfort zone as it’s barely above zero with an icy wind that shakes my windows like it’s trying to get inside to warm up.
Does anyone walk such distances these days, from one town to another? Who would have the time or the inclination? As I sit here staring at my computer screen, trying to decide whether to order the face mask with insertable filters or the one with the little heart on the side, you know, because I’d like to express some measure of connection as I encounter other faceless beings, I consider walking those 7.8 miles. I miss my sister.
She is two years older than me. Always has been. That’d crack her up. It’s one of her zillion generosities; she laughs at my jokes even when I’ve left the funny out. Ever since last March, when social distancing became necessary, we’ve had not one single hug. All pats on the back, shoulders to lean on, and hands to hold have been metaphorical. Giving up being together has been hard, but we know it’s a mere drop in millions of buckets of sacrifices people are making every day. Still, I miss my sister.
She likes to “bum around;” her name for us taking a day to run errands, shop, maybe stop for a bite. What we really do is meld - by talking about everything, crying a little and laughing a lot. The latter occurs most often in dressing rooms. Ah, remember going into those tiny cubicles and trying on “unsanitized” clothes? Well, those poorly ventilated mirrored stalls were hallowed ground for our sisterhood. It’s where we endeavored to see the best of ourselves while venturing our vulnerabilities: “is this a lump,” “do I look like mom,” and “is it back-fat when it’s on the side?”
My sister would try on anything I’d suggest. As I’d endeavor to stretch her fashion sensibilities, she’d rightly reign in mine. If time, we’d end the day with tacos and margaritas, though my sister barely can get through a glass. Just wave tequila under her nose and she’d get a hangover. We still toast via Skype on occasion, but it’s not the same - she’s lacking that blue patterned jumpsuit I’d have picked out. I miss my sister.
Her downfall? She’s the worst cook on the planet. Don’t worry, I haven’t offended her. She’d gladly proffer the same sentiment then ask what you’re making for dinner. During these months of pandemic, I’ve cooked for her, leaving food on my porch as if love was packed into those airtight containers. I miss my sister sitting at my table.
She’s my in case of emergency call, right after my husband. Truth be told, often I call her first. My sister has talked me down after a frightening diagnosis, talked me out of taking the most depressing job ever, and talked me into being braver than I ever thought I was. If no one else on the planet knew I was lost, she’d come find me. Again and again. I miss my sister.
And for those of you yelling, I know! I hear you and agree. People have suffered gravely; how can I wax on about missing someone when at least I have someone to miss? All I can say is I’ve been stoic and practical about this separation business for nearly a year. Allow me these 700 words to express the melancholy of distancing from loved ones within reach. Though truly a privileged problem to have, I’m sure I’m not alone in this ache to share a meal, see a face, and feel the intimacy of breathing the same air. I promise after this missive, I’ll pack up these emotions and return to gratitude and fortitude, but for now, I miss my sister.
This pandemic has imposed considerable lessons in contrast; we mingle loss with appreciation, frugality with generosity, fear with hope; all while navigating through the waters of how to take care of both the greater good and ourselves. Through this jumble of what I pray will end in more insight and understanding, I await the next time my sister and I stand six feet apart. I think I’ll get that mask with a heart on it for when we do.