To my second mother from her favorite doll
The photo sits on my desk. Black and white. Smudged. Not a real photo, just a copy of a copy of a real photo. It shows a young girl, about 10 years old, holding a baby. Grinning from ear to ear, she cuddles that baby like it's her favorite doll.
Which it is.
Wearing a slight scowl or maybe blinking from the camera's flash, the baby seems quite at home in her arms. Which it is.
The young girl, who looks about 10, is my sister, Wanda. The baby with the slight scowl is me.
It was taken mere days after I was born.
How can time pass so quickly and yet so slowly?
It really seems like yesterday when I was sliding down the red clay banks near my home in North Asheboro, a tomboy who would soon graduate to dolls, carrying Barbie and Ken in a special little case packed with their world-class wardrobe (which goes a long way in explaining my shopping obsession); a mere blip in time from then to dating and proms, graduating from high school, then college, getting married, coming to work at The C-T, long before there was an internet or email, becoming editor of not one but two papers ... snap ... snap ... snap ... days, weeks, months, years, decades riotously unfolding like an accordion falling down the stairs.
All along this journey has been my sister.
As a child, she held my hand, literally ... saving my life when I was 4 and fell in the creek (my earliest memory is seeing the willow tree's waver-y image from under the water and Wanda pulling me to safety) ... insisting when she got married that I had to have an identical miniature bridal dress, a floor-length satin and lace garment I wore until it came up to my knees and the zipper would no longer close (and my mother finally threw away when I wasn't looking).
As an adult, she has held my hand — figuratively — through every milestone and rite of passage.
No wonder I think of her as a second mother.
And now that our mother is gone, nearly two decades now, Wanda has taken on that surrogate role..
When I celebrate Mother's Day now, I think of my mom, but I buy cards and candy for my sister.
Not being able to hug her in person this Sunday will seem strange and wrong, another example of COVID-19 robbing us of the experiences we hold most precious. But she and I will get through this as we have every step of this journey we call life, starting with that moment captured in a black and white photo on my desk.
Neither of us bears much resemblance to that smiling young girl cuddling a baby.
I look in the mirror and I see the evidence of the years. A wrinkle that wasn't there so long ago. A gray hair or two. An ache in a knuckle, either from too much typing or the beginning of arthritis. I like to think it's from too much typing.
Sometimes I struggle to remember the names of people I've known for years or search for words to describe the most common of objects. "Thing" has become my go-to word. "Put the milk back into the 'thing.' Hand me 'the thing.' "
My sister says I'm just too full of stories and not to worry about these occasional lapses, aches or wrinkles. She doesn't notice them. I think that's because she looks at me through the eyes of love. She still sees me as her favorite baby doll.
Which I am.
Annette Jordan is the editor of The Courier-Tribune in Asheboro and The Dispatch in Lexington. Contact: ajordan@gatehousemedia.com; 336-626-6115 in Asheboro or (336) 249-3981, ext. 215, in Lexington.
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