Big sister, little sister

First birthday apart. Took us 19 years, which says it all. How do I condense 19 years into 500 words? All the memories? All the laugher, the pain? The tears, the screaming, the fighting? The inside jokes, the special understanding? The shared sunrises and sunsets, the rain, the storms. The places and people that have come and gone. I’ve never known anyone as well as you.

But let me not get soppy. You wouldn’t approve. I can picture you reading this, in the kitchen perhaps, or in your room, depending on the time of day. With the fairy lights above the bed, and the shelves crammed with fancy cookbooks and baking paraphernalia. I’ve barely been in there, mostly just the times I felt you needed someone, someone to sit on the end of your bed and chatter away, to distract you from your thoughts for a few minutes. Not sure it ever helped, but I’m your big sister, I need to at least try.

Which is funny, since mostly you act like the older one. It wasn’t always this way, but somewhere along the lines our roles switched. Now you’re self-assured and cucumber-cool. I’m the panicky, wild, all-over-the-place one that needs guidance. Which I’m grateful for, since I reckon being a younger sister is a much easier job.

Still, I hope I’ve taught you something, that I fulfilled some of my big sister duties. I doubt they were very useful lessons. For example, whilst abroad, do as many idiotic things as possible. Like renting our own speed boat in Corfu. Or riding in the back of an open pickup in Phuket. I taught you how to cut queues in airports, to kayak far out to sea, that Bangkok is actually a cool city. That leopards won’t eat you on dark nights in the bush if you talk really loud on the way back to the hut. That tornadoes are meant to be braved with cheap umbrellas.

I’ve made you lie down next to me in the middle of a field in 40 degree heat, made you risk getting trampled on by moody baby elephants. Convinced you that an auto-rickshaw is the best way to get home in India, and running up 1000 steps is the best way to catch a sunrise. That swimming in the rain ain’t a problem, you’re soaking anyway. That the next mountain is merely a hill, and you’ve got the skills to ski down it. Or run up it. Basically, I’ve dragged you on as many crazy adventures as I could. You’ve drawn the line a few times, but I think you’ve allowed that cautious, self-preserving part of you to fall back, just a little, just for me.

I’ve taught you that NCIS is worth binge watching, that its possible to wear an outfit made of completely clashing colours. That you can never have enough sun. That Minis were made for speed. I’m not sure what you’ve made of these important lessons, but I hope you had fun along the way. My haphazardly planned ideas just aren’t the same now without you here to tell me I’m insane.

Have an amazing year, filled with crazy moments, and not-so-crazy ones. Love you lots, Maya.