Yesterday was my sister’s birthday. She turned 37. It’s beyond strange to write that down. It’s not that 37 is old, it’s just that I don’t know where the time has gone. I have specific memories of telling people that my mother was turning 29 and then 36 and then 42. Now, my sister and I are staring hard down the barrel of these numbers. Some are in the rear view mirror. It’s absurd.
Our parents named us Jamie Lynn and Kerri Leigh, and then proceeded to call us JamieLynn and KerriLeigh for years. I know. We’ve decided not to forgive them for that. But when you grow up in Russellville, Arkansas, no one really notices how over-the-top precious that it.
I like having a big sister. I like that someone else goes first. I like that we still have the same fights we had in high school. There’s comfort in knowing we will put our parents in the home arguing over who got the better prom dress (she did). I like that I know how to make her a sandwich (hold the mayo) and she knows to tell people I don’t eat tomatoes. I like that even after all the horrible knock-down, drag-out fights of our youth (we actually broke the house once), we’re still stuck with each other. Most of all, I like that even at 37, she calls me “Sissy.”