Sisters
The hallway light rested on Claire’s sleeping form as I checked on her one night recently. The light highlighted her face – her jawbone and cheeks, the flawless buttermilk skin. I stared at her, and she looked positively enormous. Who was this strange creature in Claire’s bed? I rested my hand on her and felt the up-and-down of her chest before I left to inform Steve that I caught a glimpse of 20-year-old Claire. It’s that “growing fast” bit that everyone warns you about.
Claire doesn’t just look older now, she talks differently. I can explain complicated things, and she understands and offers insightful comments. She’s also comprehending hard things, things I wanted to shelter her from, but life has a way of leaking out messy topics.
Awhile ago, Claire had asked what happened to an elderly woman we knew. After explaining that she had passed away, Claire rushed off to tell her sisters and then informed them that “we’re all going to die.” It was all sort of matter-of-fact.
Another example: a young boy at Claire’s school was diagnosed with a rare form of aggressive cancer. Claire will talk about missing him, asking questions I don’t know how to answer. One day, I overheard her talking to Liza and Noelle: “You guys, he’s really sick. There’s a plant growing in his body, it’s like a vine. It’s not supposed to be there.” My heart sort of stopped when I heard Claire relaying such news to her little sisters. But it made me realize that my little trio of girls is becoming each other’s confidants. And there’s something really special about that.
A couple months ago, this is the scene I took in while passing by the bathroom door: Claire was soaking in the bathtub while encircled by a inflatable ring; Liza sat on the potty, pants to her ankles; Noelle had pulled up a little wooden chair and sat chatting with her sisters. I like picturing that scene to remind me that despite my imperfect parenting, that these sisters are a gift to each other. I don’t think I could give them anything better than that.