In my first bedroom there are two twin-sized beds draped with flower-patterned quilts. Tucked inside of those beds are me and my sister, sporting knotted hair and fuzzy pajamas. The beds stand side by side with six feet of space between them. Two nightstands with half-drunken juice boxes, table lamps, and an alarm clock separate them. If I lay on my left side and my sister lays on her right, we meet eye to eye in the dimly lit room. I was never afraid of the dark as a kid, in fact, I liked it. My sister though, she was scared. She always left the door open a crack to let light peek through from the hallway. I hated that; I thought she was a big baby. I still do.

The night before my first day of third grade:

My eyes are squeezed shut: a brain game to fall asleep early for the big day. Across the room little outfits are laid out on the carpet. Frilly skirts and Velcro shoes. Backpacks too big for their owners lay against each bedpost. Tie dye and peace signs cover one, rainbows and glitter cover the other. My little mind buzzes with anticipation. I’m gonna wake up super early. That way, Mom has time to do my hair all pretty in French braids. I kick the bedsheets and shut my eyes tighter. Ten minutes of silence pass. Still awake. Even with the ceiling fan, it’s too quiet. A tiny high-pitched voice breaks through. “What’s the first day of kindergarten like?” I open my eyes and turn over to face the ceiling. “Well... Mr. Vaughn’s really nice,” you can hear the smile in my voice, “Do you remember what I told you? What’s twenty times twenty?” A quick pause. “400.” She says it begrudgingly. I don’t mind. I respond. “Now you’ll be the smartest five-year-old there!” My sister didn’t know what 8 + 7 was, but I still bragged about her. The questions continued up until I, finally, was tired enough to fall asleep, much later than I had wanted.

Those late August nights became a tradition. My sister and I, we would skip playing dolls together but I could count on those questions to keep us together. It was our glue, our tin can telephone: laying in beds wide-eyed and restless as I told her treacherous stories of lunch tables and P.E. locker rooms.

First grade I tell her about raising caterpillars from cocoons to butterflies. Fourth grade I get her excited for the class musical. Sixth grade I wait for her at the bus stop after school. Eighth grade I tell her to have fun while she still can, high school’s super hard.

The night before my first day of senior year, my last year, my last first day:

We moved houses when I was in seventh grade. I don’t share a room with my sister anymore and we have bigger beds. I still go into her room and lay next to her that night. She’s a teenager now. Normally, she gets mad when I invade her space. But it’s the night before the first day of school. She asks me a million questions. How hard will it be? What if I get lost? Do I need PE clothes? My eyes open, I turn to look at her. You can see the smile on my face. Ask a teacher for help, I remember getting lost on my first day. You don’t need your PE clothes. And… you’ll be fine. We lay there for a long time, longer than usual. But I leave eventually.

I hop in my bed and get under the covers, pulling the blankets up to my face. My sister sleeps soundly down the hall, and that’s when I remember that this tradition is coming to an end. That there will be no more late August nights when I can crawl into bed with my little sister and tell her foreboding tales of my least favorite teachers or the hardest tests. There will be no more quick walks down the hall to her bedroom or morning car rides to school. Everything that holds us together will be gone. I clutch my stomach and let out stifled sobs. It turns messy fast, and I fall asleep with a wet pillowcase.

The morning of my college move-in date and my sister’s first day of sophomore year:

I don’t need to, but I wake up at 5:00AM to drive my sister to school early for her swim practice. The car ride is silent aside from the soft music I let her pick out. I ask her if she’ll miss me. She doesn’t respond with words. We reach the school parking lot, and she gets out of the car, hastily grabbing her backpack. I give her a hug and she hugs me back, a rarity. It was an awkward, teenager, partial hug, but nevertheless a hug. Then she got out of the car door and let it slam behind her. It echoed through my car.

After she escapes my sight through the doors, I pull away. The parking lot is deserted and dark. It feels strange to leave. I drive a little farther and pull into my old parking spot. High school was super hard, but it seems easy now, sitting outside the building I spent years crying about things that seem silly now. Soon, my sister will be crying about those same silly little things. It’s surreal, sitting there knowing that we wouldn’t be held together by proximity anymore, that the next time I would see her is nine weeks from now. We’ve never been separated for more than two. I don’t remember how long I sat in that parking lot, but I must have driven away eventually.