I finished my make up in my baby sister’s bathroom this morning. I have never seen one girl with so many products. With the exception of myself at her age. Since she slept on the couch to accommodate our visit, I had a little time to reintroduce myself to the little girl I moved away from when she was four.

I do this every year or so. I check out her framed photos of friends to see if her social landscape has changed. I look at the books she’s reading and the movies she’s watching. We were born 14 years apart. That is a gap to bridge.

I flew into town to watch her graduate from high school this weekend. She is the last bird to fly. We have all gathered to celebrate.

I heard our grandfather say that she was his special little baby. I had to leave the ceremony to grab napkins from the concession stand because my mother cried. My brothers yelled, whooped, hollered and encouraged my nephews to do the same.

I am feeling lucky and responsible. Lucky because she will be moving up north with me. Responsible because I’m her big sister. I’m hoping to be close enough to be a safe harbor and far enough away to avoid acting like Will Farrell in Old School.

I held her in my arms when I was a teenager. I’ve written her letters. I’ve held her hand and braided her hair. I love her like she’s my own because she is. She is my own, my only sister.

I have advice for her. I have places I want her to see and people I want her to meet. I have a book I want to lend her. I have a tea cup in my cupboard waiting.