I grew up in the nineties in a small town in Connecticut. We lived an hour away from the Bronx and all of New York’s urban bustle, but Danbury itself was slow, and quiet. I remember afternoons spent watching either MTV or my 16 year old sister Dara, who was the epitome of cool. She took violin lessons in town, wrote poetry, and had a line of piercings running along her ears. She was authentic and sensitive and I always wanted to be around her, listening to music or watching her do her homework.
When both of our parents were working, it was Dara who would help me make a pot of Ramen noodles or a hot pocket. Of course, I annoyed her at times. I was loud and excited with incessant questions and always wanted her to make me smoothies to drink together while watching The X-Files. I was a 10 year old girl who wanted to be a cool 16 year old girl that wrote poetry and had friends that wore nose rings and knew cute boys with red hair named Seamus.
Instead, I was mainly awkward, and that’s OK. Because Dara loved me anyway. She went walking with me, told me stories and entertained my desire to play games or throw spaghetti on the ceiling until it stuck.
Today, we live a few towns away from each other in Florida and have daughters that are a week apart in age. We spend Thanksgivings together and she most recently got me hooked on Grey’s Anatomy on Netflix. And she still thinks I’m a little crazy, especially for writing this, I’m sure — but Dara, if you are reading, I love you!