My sister Pauline says at forty-seven she’s lived only one half of her time, and wants the other half to spend in her herb garden. She lives deep in a valley of barking hill dogs and dust-covered crickets. She rarely leaves her sacred hollow, where she is protected from the ravages of TV and newsprint.
What I want to tell you, Pauline, is simple. It is that I love you. You have a special place in my heart, and you just stay there, as you just stay in your valley.
From our childhoods together, we were as different as any two people could be. You don’t want anything to do with my world of travel and exposure. And I am mystified by your life of seclusion.
I am in awe of how you build your houses and grow your herbs and sew beautiful clothes. I am in awe of the fact that you’ve actually lived with somebody for twenty years. I love the little girl that you and Peyton had, who is not so little anymore, but is as beautiful as her name, Pearl. And I love your handsome son, who lives on the Lower East Side in New York and wears punk makeup and tartan kilts and is as shy as you. But did you know he held my coat for me, and also walked on the outside when I took him and his girlfriend to dinner in some hip and groovy art deco restaurant in the city?
I know you from the things you have made for me. The quilt from sixteen years ago—royal purple corduroy bordering bright velour patches, a most luxurious gift. It was topped only by the robe. One year I gave you all my unused embroidered Spanish scarves, overused silk blouses, old velvet jackets, costly pendants, beaded purses, rhinestone belts and tasseled stoles and asked you to make me a robe. You made a glorious, rich, bejewelled, hooded extravaganza which I wear to the opera and to masked balls, where it is coveted by everyone.
The last time I visited you I was in a tizzy over Gabe and had a stomachache, and you made me cup after cup of fresh mint tea, even coming down the ladder from your and Peyton’s bedroom at 3:00 a.m. when you heard me up, to chat with me in whispers, and offer comforting hopes about child-rearing. You showed me your sewing nook, filled with mountain knickknacks and lavender sachets. Your eyes filled up at almost everything. Your arms flailed out of soft homemade shirtsleeves. I saw your muscles, big as apples, bobbing, a groove forming at the lower ridge each time you flexed. I noticed your perfect teeth and watched your shining hazel eyes, tearing and drying, tearing and drying. You used to be my white sister. Now I see you are my squaw sister. I hope you have found peace in the valley.