I like to tell people that my sister lives with the fairies. This is probably why I sometimes forget that I can call her. Surely the cliffs where fairies live don't get good cell phone reception?

I'm a horrible sister; I don't call nearly often enough.

 * * *

"How ARE you?"

"Great! But I've lost Mom." Mom, visiting Ireland for the week.

"You lost Mom?"

"She went off ahead of me."

It doesn't entirely surprise me. I imagine Mom traipsing the side streets of Cork, bending forward to peek into the windows of shops, pointing at soda bread. Stopping to listen to a street performer playing a song she doesn't realize is actually Dylan, taking the long way back to the hotel to marvel at old buildings and old men wearing old caps down by the water to keep their old ears warm. Oblivious to her name being called behind her along the way.

Our mother, she's got no strings.

"Can you call back in a half an hour once I've found her?"

I heat up some soup, drum my fingernails, wait half an hour and call back. The first time there's no answer. For a moment of held breath, I imagine a stolen purse, a chase scene, international intrigue, a bang on the head and sudden amnesia, a windowless van full of masked men. I dial again.

"I found her. She went to the police station, like a good girl."

"Oh thank god." My sister knows that we are unnatural worriers.

"She was holding candy." My sister knows how to make a story better.

By now they're building a fire in her little Irish home; down the line I can hear everyone laughing in the background. There they are, all together, telling stories that have sat untold for too long. For a moment, I say nothing just so I can be a part of that room. The crackle of logs is lost to satellite static. Fairies dangling from antenna wires.

"You know you need to call me again so we can have a big talk."

I know, sister; I know. You're far away, you have stories to tell, and I don't call nearly often enough.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.

"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.

Kate: Wow! They are in the middle of NOWHERE.
Me: Or in front of a very elaborate green screen.
The Husband: If we're ever in the middle of the ocean, and you drop the green screen reference, I'll push you out. Yeah. Swim towards the green screen, Zan. See how far that gets you.

― The thing about these wildlife preservation areas is that they're not really protecting what they're intending to protect.
― Mmm-hmm.
― The nature of wild animals is to be unfettered.
― Mmm-hmm.
― I mean, if you take the last larynx on earth and put him in a cage, he's not a larynx.
― Mmm-hmm.
― A larynx isn't a larynx because he's a larynx, but because of the mountaintop.
― Except...
― Yeah?
― Isn't the larynx a part of the throat?
― Oh. Yeah.
― I think you mean a lynx.
― I don't even know if lynx live on mountaintops...