Forty
I remember that afternoon perfectly, exactly 32 years ago, today. You were impatient for 16:00 to arrive, the opening time of one of our favorite stores. I was even more impatient than you, and you knew it. Because, on your eighth birthday, you had scraped together money from your birthday gifts to buy something you had dreamed of but, and you knew this, something I desired too: the Sega MegaDrive.
You loved video games and sometimes we played together on my computer. But often, the games I had didn't appeal to you, even though you were good at them. We did well at Bubble Bobble, less so at others, but we had fun. My Game Boy had become yours and you would lend it to me occasionally. But you wanted your own console, with your own games and, I knew well, you wanted it also to have opportunities to play with me.
We arrived at opening time, got out of the car and started running toward the store. I don't know which of us was more excited about what was about to happen, about what you were going to buy. We came out shortly after, with your Sega MegaDrive (the box was bigger than you, so I carried it for you, while our parents helped us load it into the car).
We got home and unpacked it, connecting it in your room, on the desk. The TV was too old, so I lent you mine, since I used the computer monitor and didn't watch TV in my room. Sonic was beautiful, with those tunes and that graphics, but you preferred Disney games and "the one with the princesses" - but Sonic was fine too, as long as we were together and I stayed in your room to play with you.
You spent so many hours, in those few months, in front of that console. With me, with our little cousins, with your little friends. But when I came and asked you to play a game of Sonic, you would light up.
Just as I lit up when I learned you were born, exactly 40 years ago, today. I was a child, but I remember everything clearly - from the night before, when I slept in bed with dad because mom was in the hospital, with you on the way. I was worried and he let me sleep with him, to help me feel calmer. When you came home, I remember you in the crib and me, sitting beside it, watching you sleep. You were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen and already, even at almost 6 years old, I felt the responsibility to make sure you were okay. Every now and then you would move and I would be reassured, with your black hair and your smiling gaze, even as a newborn.
I wonder what you would be like today. You would turn 40 and, perhaps, your hair wouldn't all be black anymore but some gray streaks would be making more and more space, waiting for hair dye. I wonder if you would have had some small wrinkles, because your 40s often start to show the signs of the pains and thoughts of passing time. I wonder if you would have been as cheerful as you were then, still looking for reasons to spend time with me. I wonder where life would have taken you, just as it has taken me far from that house, from that store, from those moments. For sure, and I'm more than certain of this, we would never have been far apart - if not geographically, we would have talked often and would always have been present, one for the other.
Happy birthday, my little sister. Wherever you are, remember that there isn't a day when there isn't a thought for you, even after all these years.