Our family
tree says we’re cousins. First cousins
to be exact. Our mothers are
sisters. But she and her younger sister
were more like older sisters to me. We
spent summers, holidays and birthdays together.
She’s four years older than me – and to a kid, so incredibly wise for
her age. 
She had the best hair, long nails and cute jeans. Boys liked her. Her sister annoyed her. You know, a regular pretty girl. I looked up to her. In a lot of ways, I wanted to be her – or, at
least, like her.
She married young. I
would say 20 years old – making me 16 years old. She got married at our house, in front of our
fireplace. She wore her mother’s wedding
dress – a dress that I love to this day.
She let me be one of her bridesmaids – my very first long dress. In lavender, no less.
Perhaps this is the day I decided that weddings would be my
life. My business, my dream, my service
to the world. Or at least my little
corner of it. 
Debbie married, had two kids. My family moved away. I went to college. She divorced.
She remarried. We grew up. We grew older. We grew apart.
We exchanged Christmas cards and birth announcements. She came to my wedding. She was there. I was here.
But somehow – she still felt like my “big sis”. I knew she was there if I needed her. I was here if she needed me.
In August, her daughter called me. She had news.
Not good news. Cancer news.
She’s tough. She’ll
fight. We’re in this together.
The years. The
years. The years. Where did they go?
January is another call.
This call is hospice. She’s still
fighting, but the cancer is winning.
Her beautiful hair is gone.
No more cute jeans. Her nail
polish is chipped. But the sparkle. The sparkle isn’t gone. It comes from inside. Where her true beauty
is.
So I will go see her this Thursday. I’ll sit with her. We’ll talk.
Or maybe not. She sleeps a
lot. I’ll lay with my face close to
hers. I need some of her sparkle to rub
off on me. I won’t forget the
sparkle. That won’t die. Sparkle doesn’t die. It sparkles.
Just like Debbie. Cancer can’t erase the sparkle.
