"Grandpa WAS James Brown, though."

I posted this a few days ago and then took it away, because I was a little ashamed. But shame is good, and any shame I have over being this goopy is completely eclipsed by the shame that I feel after showing up, early, to an appointment that I turned out to be 24 hours and 15 minutes late for. A whole day. I was a whole day late.

Last night I was asleep and I woke up when my younger sister's car pulled into the driveway, around 1 am. She came inside and woke my youngest sister up and the two of them sat in the family room ("Where you keep the families. In the floor.") and laughed until I got up and joined them, putting an end to any real scandalous fun because I am ninety-four years old, have no concept of time or iTunes and often poop my pants in public when I'm out with them, resulting in leaving the store swathed in shame and fake pants made of plastic TJ Maxx bags.

We sat around and laughed and I hideously laughed, to the point where my abdomen and diaphragm felt like I had been repeatedly punched. I had tears streaming down my face and they didn't stop when my youngest sister got up and imitated every black male relative we've ever had, who's danced in someone's finished basement to Al Green and Bootsy Collins, those thick polyester pants riding up over thin ankles and long black dress socks, pale leather slip-on shoes gently sweeping the floor in circles and taps as the other foot slides back and forth across the burnt orange, nubbly indoor-outdoor carpet, while the three of us watched in our footed pajamas and nightgowns, thrilled to be up so late, sitting next to our Grandma and listening to the Tonight Show in the background and the thick, heavy claps that echoed against the pine paneled walls.

I think that dancing is the biggest thing that the three of us share -- none of us, save for a stint of childhood dance classes for each of us, are formally trained. We love to dance, though, as everyone in our family does. There is no situation where we will not bust it, straight-faced and calm, making fun of someone, usually one of us. Waiting to be seated at a restaurant, on the sidewalk waiting for the car, walking up the aisle after a movie. No big moves, then, just a shake of the shoulders or slow, subdued hand movements meant only for the other(s) to see, no one else. Then we all laugh, snorting behind cupped hands and turned-in lips. We never dance seriously, though, not in front of one another. I have never seen either of my sisters dance "for real", and they haven't seen me dance since I was 15 or 16, the age where my reaction after catching them spying on me dancing in my room turned into a tiny, Canadian filmed ABC Family movie about teenage rage that lasted three days. So last night we danced a little, doing the Grandpa and robot and militant college-guy arm chop (one or both hands, your choice) and "Untz-Untz-Uhhhhntz" club beat between our teeth. One last summer night of fake dancing.

They have plans that don't include me, involving the snaring of a young man who is older than I am (28 to my 25) for my 21 year old sister. When I gently suggested some opening lines, being as I am part of his generation, it turned into a round of "What? Go be old. Go be old. Talk about sporadically watching the first season of 'The Real World' some more in the kitchen, making yourself a cup of decaffeinated tea." And I said nothing, because I guess it's safe to say that I've had more experience with 28 year olds than either of them have, not including a state-funded educational setting. What do you say? "Oh that's right. I'm sorry. Maybe you guys can talk about what it was like when he was 10 and you were 17. That awesome year. You guys probably hung out at a lot of the same places. Like Daycare."

It was part of it. I sat on the steps and listened to them make these plans, rehearse the conversation the other would start, the patter, and laughed until my hand wilted against my chest and I couldn't do anything but blink. We have roles we fall into when we're around one another, roles that surprise people who see us in and out of that setting. Mine is the "Little Big Sister", the least flattering, the least pointed and quick. I am the shortest. I am also, whether willingly or not, the most out-of-touch, the most naive, the most translucent and open with her motives. I just want to hug my sisters and talk to them and listen to them, a reaction not at all unlike the one my dad has when all three of us are around or out with him. They put up with me, and in turn I put up with them. One of us has the trait where people just want to buy her things, give her food and let her take whatever she wants with her delicate wrists and huge eyes. Oh how annoying. Oh never change. The last one, the youngest and tallest, will knock you down, has no idea of her height and will barrel into you, interrupt you physically or verbally. She will make you laugh if you're mad at her, and breezes by, so busy sparkling. And she will be the first to notice if you're quieter than normal.

Later, when we all were too tired to keep it up and one of us had grown snappy, I was still laughing so hard I was crying and then I really started crying, cementing everything they've ever thought about me, securing the role mentioned above. Just a little, just enough to have to rub my eyes and turn away, still shuddering with laughter but this time having a salty, queasy throat too. I see one of them almost every day, I will see the other in a few weeks and winter break is closer than I think even I'd like. But this summer was good, so good and it passed so fast. Things are changing, so good and so fast, but we made ourselves forget about it this summer, bobbing through the hot days. It is impossible not to feel the change, too, with two cloudy, heavy days in a row now as we part ways.

And now I have to go leave a creepy voice mail for both of them.

Comments

[Farnés]

Why would you have been ashamed about this piece of writing? It's beautiful. You almost made me cry.

[Beth]

I agree... I absolutely love reading your entries. Whether they are the entertaining ones or the more serious and sentimental, such as this.

I love your style.

[Megan]

I'm glad you put this back up. I read it the first time around and thought it was a great piece of writing. Kudos to you...you have skills.