"How ARE you?"
"I'm GREAT! I'm walking down a hill, watching the sun set over town."
The sun setting over Cork — again I'm amazed and inspired by her adventures. She tells me stories of playing with blues bands. How she's off to Connemara soon.
"I haven't heard your voice since August!"
"Have I told you I dream about you ALL the TIME?" We're connected, sisters. More deeply than most. We used to sing the Rosemary Clooney/Vera-Ellen song; I was the sensible Betty, she, the vibrant Judy. Other times we fought like animals. Or we giggled until our sides ached. Or we slammed doors in each other's faces. And then we listened to each other. And listened. And listened.
We miss each other like mad when one of us is far away.
There's a cassette tape buried in a box at home: the two of us left alone to play with a tape recorder. And our songs. We sing about Duncan Yo-Yos. We sing nursery rhymes. We make up our own jingles, whisper to each other in our conspiratorial sisterly undertones. We, ages 5 and 3, imagine what we'll be like when we're "old." I egg her on, give her secret nicknames. Caitlin. Kathy. Names that aren't hers; she denies every one. And here she is, 30 candles on the pumpkin cake, and I'm still trying to give her a name.
"You know, you can call me any time..."
I miss her like mad.
Happy Birthday, my dear nameless wandering sister. I'll come see you in your dreams.