Dear Gilly (or Gigi, Donkey, Shorty, G-Mac, McLayclay, Gilly-Bean. Whoever you are,)
Yesterday you turned 25 years old. A quarter century. I've been meaning to write this for a long time, but I've been struggling to find words. I don't know how I'm supposed to sum up what you mean to me in a couple hundred words. I don't even think a book would do it justice (even though it would be beautifully written with a killer jacket design.)
I've said many times how you've always seemed like the older sister to me. You are still the first one I call for advice on outfits, men, life in general. Your advice is always spot on, and I cherish it more than you'll ever know.
I know right now you're probably giggling at the idea of you being the older sister. My nickname is Memere for a reason. There are certain ways, though, that you seem so wise, so worldly, so independent and strong.
Remember the time I got my period for the first time on the train to Toronto, stuffed in that tiny, swaying bathroom? How I started to cry and you smoothed my hair and told me everything was OK, that I was a woman now? Yeah, me neither. But I do remember you screaming "WHAT IS THAT?!" and leaving me stranded in the restroom, hovered over the aluminum toilet while you quite nonchalantly sat back down with Nana like nothing had happened, too embarrassed (or scarred?) to tell her what had just happened in the bathroom. I don't remember how long I waited for you to come back with supplies, but I do remember the smirk on your face when I finally came out and sat down again. Ok, maybe that's not the best example.
Along the same lines, though (I know this is a lot of woman talk, and I apologize to any bashful males who happen upon this post, but I probably lost you at "advice on outfits and men" anyway) the day I "became a woman" was full of fanfare for me. We went out for dinner. I passed out in the mall. I was the center of attention. It was a celebration, because my dramatic ass was now fertile and able to bear children. I couldn't wait to tell the world, on rose scented floral paper sealed with dried daisies and fairy dust.
I'm sure we would have celebrated when you "became a woman," except nobody knew. Not a soul. Not for three whole months. When you finally did come out and tell me you were officially a woman, you were PISSED. Pissed at mother nature, pissed at life, pissed at me, pissed at the mailman. Turns out, you weren't going to magically turn into a boy one day like Dad always said after all! I was ecstatic.
I used to feel guilty that I was the showy, flashy, in-your-face sibling. But you never seemed to want the limelight. Now, this is a trait I admire. Your modesty, charm, and calm personality makes you so well-liked among everyone you meet.
Having the chance to live with you, Gigi, was one of my favorite experiences. You're the only person I know who can make a trip to the grocery store, a walk in the bush, the task of cleaning out the playroom a laugh riot.
I once overheard someone at a party talking about how weird it was that we only laugh at each others jokes. A couple of seconds later, I said something totally strange to anyone but you, and you killed yourself. I laughed too, because that's what we do. We have each others backs, sis.
Only recently, when the real world with all its shades of gray started to set in, did I begin to realize not all sisters are close. I used to think it was a requirement. Sisters = Best Friends Forever. What a sweet deal! All you had to do was be born, and like me. Forever! I really could not imagine my life without ya, ya big dumb nut!
The bond we've shared our whole lives is almost indescribable for me (can you believe it? Me? Speechless?), but look, a dozen paragraphs and I still don't feel like I've done you justice. You've been there for every event that has shaped my life and made me who I am today. You've given me so much, without asking for anything in return. You're one of the most selfless, creative, beautiful souls I know (are you barfing in your mouth yet?) You've held my hand in the darkest times, celebrated with me in the bright shiny moments, and made me laugh until I peed. On multiple occasions.
I guess all of this is to say, Gig, you the shit. And I mean that in the absolute best way possible.
Happy Birthday to my sissy, my kindred spirit, my soul mate. Keep smiling that shit-eatin' grin of yours and your world will continue to be filled with wonderful things.
Love,
Yo' Sis
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