A Tale of Two Sisters
Jo Hall
The relationship of two sisters brought closer by living in the same city is examined through family photos and narrative.
Transcript
This story, A Tale of Two Sisters, begins when my sister peered into the intensive care unit and saw me, in her words shed described me as “purple and shriveled” but, of course, I can’t remember that. For me, the story begins with a snapshot taken by my sister when I was three and she was nine. “Stand on the edge of the cliff.”, she’d said. “Wave at me.” I waved enthusiastically. “Wave slowly” she said, “or it will come out as a blur.” I waved, in slow motion. “No” she said, “try looking like you’re waving but keep still”. This was a difficult concept for a three-year-old to grasp, particularly the staying still part, but, wanting to please my big sister, I gave a perfectly still wave which looked more like a salute, with a fixed smile to go with it.
“I can’t breathe!” she said as she broke into a fit of giggles. We couldn’t stop laughing until we got back to the campsite.
When I was ten and she was sixteen I’d become less cute; I had to resort to more annoying techniques to get my sister’s attention, like the time I hid on her window sill until she fell asleep and leapt out on her as a ghost. Or when I poured a glass of sherry on her spiky hair-do that I said made her look like a hedgehog.
In a state of pre-teen angst I was convinced that I must have been adopted because I felt so different and wasn’t sure I belonged. I dreamt of escaping to become a great archaeologist. I would sit in my favourite apple tree at the end of the garden but then, my sister would lean out of her bedroom window and call to me. We’d giggle and wave and I’d think that maybe we had something in common after all.
She left home when I was twelve and she was eighteen. I missed her terribly and she missed me. When we stayed with each other we’d giggle like a couple of kids, even when our problems seemed so weighty; even when it felt that the only thing getting us through was each other.
For seventeen years we have never lived in the same place, as adults we have never shared the same city. But now, when I’m twenty nine and she’s thirty five, we’ve been drawn together: My new job (as an archaeologist) has brought me to Bristol, a place I’d come to know and love through visits to my sister.
Now, we sit together. We giggle and chat and understand each because of what we’ve shared. We joke that we’ll still be touring tea shops together when I am seventy and she is seventy six.
So the story ends with a snapshot of the future: two elderly sisters giggling and stuffing themselves with cake, and in the background… could it be Bristol? Because now that we’re finally reunited, I can’t imagine being without her.
