Little Sister Sleeping

Have you ever had a little sister? I’m not sure if little brothers are the same or not. They might be, but I can’t say.

My little sister has remained littler; small enough to tuck under my arm, fits well in compact spaces, easy to shield if needed.

As a child, she was a tornado of movement and mayhem.

In photos of us (of which there are many; my parents — dad especially — indulged in the hobby), I am almost always posed and trying my best to meet expectations; she is never still. Her face is contorted into a caricature or altogether distracted by some train of thought or more engaging activity.

A few of our old family photos. Matching and coordinated outfits feature prominently.

She still conducts more energy throughout her day than I can keep up with, though I am more often the one our family now associates with taking unexpected paths, failing to conform to intended roles, being difficult to pin down. But she moves constantly — working, cooking, cleaning, gardening — like my parents, she is a force of execution.

But eventually our turning top stops, and she sleeps heavy and hard. Head lolling in a baby seat, resting against my shoulder, on the pillow next to me, nestled in the couch — wherever she has slipped into slumber.

My parents were grateful when she rested, granting them peace and quiet. I would sit, enchanted with her stillness, studying her flickering…