Hopelessly, Madly in Love

She was born three months before I turned fifteen. I had been anticipating her arrival for months, and when she finally came into this world, my world changed. Oh, my. What to do with all this love? I hadn't known that kind of love before May 3, 1960. My focus now was narrow and all consuming.  Her name was Joyce Lynnette, but from day one, we called her by her middle name.

Mother gave birth to Lynnette, but she belonged to me. She gave me a reason to want to come home every day.

Mother and Orville (his name was Royal Orville but we called him by his middle name) both worked at two factories in town, so as soon as Mother went back to work, I was given permission to skip study hall, the last period of the day,  to babysit my precious little girl.

Look at that face. Have you ever seen anything in your life as adorable as my baby sister?  I took Lynnette everywhere with me; we were inseparable. I was hopelessly, madly in love. 

When Lynnette hurt, I hurt. For long seconds after a boo-boo, I would lose my breath; I couldn't bear to see her suffer.

And now that I think about it all these many years later, that is most likely the reason why on that August day in 2010, I suddenly lost my ability to breathe. My fifty-year-old little sister was hurting and the pain inflicted came from Sissy, the sister who was also her best friend, the first person she always called when trouble knocked at her door, the big sis who tried to guide her around painful potholes that lie in her path in life. That very sister who wanted to protect her little sister from hurting was now responsible for her pain and suffering: That sister would be me. Of course, you knew that already, didn’t you? 

I was standing in our driveway, looking out over the Little Tennessee River and the Nantahala Mountains, remembering the harsh words spoken days before; my harsh words. I wanted to cry but the tears wouldn't come; I was too angry to cry. And then my throat clamped shut and I stopped breathing.