My little sister used to love dance – ballet, tap, jazz, any style. She moved like she was born to music, like gravity was a suggestion. After rehearsals, she’d burst through the front door flushed and glowing, glitter dusting her collarbones, the scent of hairspray and sweat trailing behind her like a comet.

I was seven when she was born. Can remember the day our parents brought her home wrapped in a pink blanket, impossibly small. Dad had wanted another boy. Someone for me to roughhouse with, to share bunk beds and baseball gloves. Another boy to bring out some ‘boy’ qualities in me. Mom had wanted a girl to dress in ribbons and spoil. To pour her love into viscerally. I stood in the hallway holding a stuffed bear I hadn’t touched in years, unsure when I was supposed to give it to this precious, fragile pink mass wrapped so tightly in their arms.

We went to countless recitals. Sat through hours of pliés and pirouettes, the air thick with perfume and stage makeup. Mom and Dad would beam from the front row, clutching bouquets of lilies or roses, talking in whispers about how gifted their daughter was. I clapped too, but always a beat behind.

In high school, I joined a band. We played in garages and basements, mostly covers, mostly loud. One of our first real gigs landed on the same night as Sleeping Beauty.  

“Your show isn’t really for adults though, right?” my parents had stated more than asked. They both attended the recital.

A couple years later, home from college one December, my sister had earned the lead in The Nutcracker. The youngest Clara in the company’s history. During intermission, I stepped outside for a cigarette, a habit I had picked up while at school. The cold bit my fingers as I watched the smoke curl upward, trying to imagine what it felt like to be the center of a stage. A stage with an audience.

No one knew, but by this point, my sister was starting to hate dance. Only stuck with it through high school to make our parents proud. The blisters and the pressure and the endless smiling had worn her thin. But she never told me. Never told anyone. Until other options became available – scholarships and internships and a budding passion for ‘justice.’

When I came back inside the performance hall, Mom wrinkled her nose. “You stink.”

I laughed, tried to shrug the comment off.

“You really ought to stop that,” Dad added. “It’s not cool. Frankly, it’s embarrassing for your mother and me.”

I clutched my pocket as if my phone was vibrating, faked a call and left. Missed the whole second act, which featured my sister more than the first. Mom and Dad were furious. Sitting in their seats, glancing up the aisle toward the lobby, waiting for me to return.

In home videos, I’m always hugging my sister, kissing her cheek. But she never reaches for me. When the camera pans away, I pull back, Mom or Dad steps in, and I watch from the edge of the frame. You see, I am in awe of my sister, too. Always have been.

“I can’t even look at you,” Mom said the morning after the show.
“How could you do that to your sister?” Dad asked. “She would never do that to you.”

I knew that, but I didn’t know how to explain that I wanted her to miss me. For all three of them to. Just once. To look for me in the crowd. Search in the dark corners of the hall.

Today, at the courthouse, my sister is being sworn in as a lawyer. Dance is a distant hobby, but performing is something she’ll always love. Always be good at.

“If you ever get in a bind, big brother,” she says, “I’ll represent you for free.”

She smiles, and I am transported back to all those times in the crowd. That polished, practiced, vibrant, beautiful smile.

That night after leaving her performance, smelling like cigarettes, I didn’t feel ashamed. I felt clarity.

The Jewel on Main St. was still open. Empty aside from a few employees, who had little interest in me. In the floral department, I plucked as many pink carnations from various arrangements as I could. Formed my own custom-bouquet of the flower.

Once home, I went to the kitchen and found a vase, filled it with water. In the quiet stillness, I slowly cut the cellophane around the bouquet. Trimmed the stems at an angle, just like the directions suggested.

I hadn’t noticed in the store, but some of the petals were already wilting. Some of the pinks were less than vibrant. But a few were nothing short of perfect.

Meticulously, I stirred in the plant food. Stirred until every last speck had dissolved. I wanted them to grow.