Me and my younger sister Carissa.
Almost two years ago, I moved back home from Arizona. My room shares a wall with hers.
For the first few months of our cohabitation setup, we seemed to be on a track to genuine sisterly adorableness, brushing our teeth together, doing our makeup together, trying on our newest mall purchases together, bursting out into songs from our childhood together. Every day, we talked and laughed. She made this house that I’d been away from feel like home once again.
But then life morphed into something different. She got a new boyfriend and a new job and started spending every waking minute consumed by one or the other. I now jump on the internet the moment I wake up and the moment I come home from work. We barely see each other, it seems, even though we share a Sonicare toothbrush charger. Things have changed, though she still pops in my room almost every night just before she goes to bed.
“Hi sister,” she’ll say from the doorway.
“Hi sister,” I’ll say from my computer.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
Last week, when we found out we got the new condo, I had to make a very quick decision on whether or not I would move in. Carissa made her own decision instantly — I think she started packing her bags that day.
“Are you going to move in?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“I really want you to,” she replied.
A part of me wanted to, too. Maybe the thrill of living on our own would make us close again. But soon, the impracticality of it all sunk in. I’d be moving into a much smaller room and would have to pay nearly a grand each month in rent when I could live here for free. It didn’t make sense.
Now though, I feel unsettled as I watch trash bags filled with clothes pile up the garage, ready to be thrown in her hatchback and moved to a brand new closet. Sure, she’ll just be five minutes away, but it’s not same as knowing she’s right behind my wall.
