Family On A Sunday
It’s a Saturday night and I have the house to myself. It’s been hours of Gilmore Girls playing in the background, Intense Chocolate ice-cream and a half-assed manicure that never should have been. I reach for my laptop and I write, something short and quick, something for myself, to keep the mind at ease. I reach a stopping point and I check the time; it’s 2 am on a Sunday and for some reason I decide to check my email.
I have a message from my sister, sent a few hours earlier. All she says is, she felt like writing in English tonight and do I mind giving this a read? A Word doc. attached, a short, heartfelt piece written on a late Saturday night. A short essay about relationships—an intimate part of her life I learn about in spurts, very much like tonight, through pictures taken miles away and private messages on Facebook.
I read her story, edit some, and email her back. I tell her that it’s beautiful, that I love her and say goodbye.
My sister and I lead very different lives. We live in separate countries, have different jobs and surround ourselves with vastly different people, but on a Saturday night we both find ourselves alone and we write. We speak to each other in a few lines, through edit suggestions and absent explanations. This is the way we’ve learned to love each other; after ten years of living miles apart, with quiet support that isn’t quite tangible, but always real.