Election Anxiety has me in its grip.  I know I am not alone.  When I lie awake at night fretting my what-ifs, I feel myself embraced by half my countryfolk, who are most likely feeling exactly as I am.  Terrified.  But next week, come what may, I’ll have a bit of comfort.  My little sister Helen is traveling to see me.

Deep in the dog days of August 1953, my father drove my brother David and me to Bayside, Queens, to our grandparents’ home.  For me, it was a familiar second home – my cousin Johnny and I had lived with our grandparents off and on before either of us had siblings.  For David, however, it was unsettling.  “I wanna go home,” he cried.  “Duke (our spike-toothed boxer) needs me.”  He was right about that. 

We stayed in Queens for a few days. Mom gave birth and, as was the custom in those days, she “luxuriated” in the hospital long enough to convalesce.  Later, she regaled us with stories about Dad making her walk into the first stages of labor at the Forrest Park Zoo, and how no zoo would ever be tolerable again.  She said it was a good thing that Dad had burned the coffee and ruined breakfast that morning, as there was less for her to heave. But I was oblivious. I had my cousin Johnny, my near-twin, and after Dad called to say we had a new baby sister, I was without anxiety.  A sister was a good thing.  And there was no reason to rush back to Deerfield. She had not yet arrived there.

When we did get home, David was crushed.  Duke had run away. He was in residence now at the Deerfield Boys’ Academy, where he had been gratefully adopted. I didn’t care. I had no interest in Duke.  I had new responsibilities.

We lived that year in a 17^th C farmhouse in the remote Berkshire foothills of western Massachusetts.  Mama was responsible for the henhouse, where foxes routinely wreaked havoc that she had to clean, and where hens laid messy eggs she had to gather. We had no running water, so water had to be pumped and stored, and all water for cleaning and bathing had to be heated on the stove. Chores were endless, and now that we had this new baby, I was expected to help more than ever. At night, when Mama was exhausted by the chores and the work of chasing David and tending her infant, I got to stay up past my bedtime to hold Helen, feed her her bedtime bottle, and rock her to sleep while Mama dozed on the couch beside us. 

I bonded with my little sister.  And she understood from the very beginning that we belonged to each other.  Over the years, we played, we fought, we talked, we yelled; she told my children I taught her guitar, but she was the gifted one.  I sort of introduced her to sex and drugs; she gave me rock’n’roll by way of her beloved Beatles and Monkees, whose music was foreign to me.  I grew because of my sister, and she found new possibilities because of me.

It’s been eight years since I last saw her.  Time, distance, families, and careers have kept us apart.  In the intervening years, much has happened to sever ties among the remaining siblings, but we have sharpened our connection.  I cannot wait to see her.