I used to think being an older sister meant there would always be another tomorrow.
Another event to show up to.
Another phone call to answer.
Another afternoon to spend sitting on the floor doing absolutely nothing important.
Another chance to say yes.
Another chance to be kinder.
But I was young too.
And young people are experts at believing time is endless.
So sometimes I chose anger.
Not at you.
Never really at you.
At Mom.
At everything.
At a life that felt too heavy for shoulders that were still growing.
And somehow the anger always landed in the wrong places.
Sometimes it landed in my voice when I yelled.
Sometimes it landed in the slammed door between us.
Sometimes it landed in the empty seat where I should have been, watching you and cheering louder than anyone else.
Sometimes it landed in your tears.
And God, if I could gather every tear I ever caused and carry it myself, I would.
I remember things you probably don’t even remember.
The sharp words.
The moments I brushed you off.
The times you asked me to stay and I left anyway.
The times you wanted your sister and got somebody distracted, somebody hurting, somebody too busy being a dumb teenager to realize childhood doesn’t wait.
I keep those memories like rocks in my pockets.
They follow me everywhere.
Especially now.
Now that miles separate us.
Now that states separate us.
Now that other people decide when I get to see you.
Now that I can’t just walk down the hall and tell you I’m sorry for every single thing.
Because distance has a cruel way of teaching you what mattered most.
And what mattered most was never the arguments.
Never the drama.
Never whatever grown-up problems I thought were the end of the world.
It was you.
It was always you.
You with your laugh.
You with your stories.
You asking me to spend time with you one more time.
You reaching for my hand before I knew how lucky I was.
If I could go back, I wouldn’t change the big things.
I’d change the small things.
I’d stay ten minutes longer.
I’d answer one more call.
I’d go to one more event.
I’d sit on the couch one more night.
I’d hug you after every argument.
I’d tell you that none of my anger belonged to you.
I’d tell you that being your sister was never the burden.
Losing time with you was.
And if guilt could build a bridge, I’d walk all the way back to every moment I got wrong.
Not because I was a bad sister.
But because I loved you more than I knew how to show.
And now that you’re farther away, that love echoes through every memory.
Every missed event.
Every harsh word.
Every moment I wish I could do over.
I hope one day you know,
The things I regret most are not the mistakes themselves.
It’s that I can never get those moments back.
Because if I had one more chance,
I’d spend less time being angry at the world
and more time being your sister.
