Beautiful and Bizarre

Small piece talking about my sister and I. She's pretty much my favourite person in the world -- my inspiration.

My sister and I used to go outside and dance when it rained. I remember savouring the feel of cool water soaking my hair and running down my face; the fresh taste to the air, the invigorating smell. The world calmed and, in those moments, I felt more at peace than I ever had in my life. Alongside me, always, was Jocelyn, in her neon pink raincoat and Wellington boots. She would usually run up to me, laughing, her dark wavy hair plastered to her face, and hug me, trying to get me wetter than I already was. When we were sufficiently exhausted, we would go inside and curl up under a blanket on the living-room couch together. She used to be much taller than me, and I’d fit perfectly in the crook of her arm. We’d watch TV while sipping hot herbal tea, chatting happily for hours.

 

We used to stay up late into the night, staring at the ceiling, speculating about whether trees had souls or if we were really in the Matrix. She really listened when I spoke, in a way no one else ever had. She’d smile encouragingly, genuinely interested, and ask challenging questions when I paused. She’d then, in turn, come up with her own wild theories, her gold-green eyes bright with imagination and excitement. She was my idol, my hero; everything she said and did seemed so wise and quirky and deep that I couldn’t help but want to be her. I tried so hard to imitate that incredible presence she seemed to innately possess " both peaceable and peculiar, both beautiful and bizarre.

 

I remember she had a gorgeously eclectic fashion sense. She loved anything second-hand or vintage, and wore characteristically vibrant colours. In the winter, she’d bundle up in wool wraps and scarves; in the summer, she’d dress in flowing, flower-patterned skirts. Sometimes she’d wear flip-flops paired with vibrant dresses and gaudy beads. Or else she’d don bright tees with jeans covered in homemade patches. Her hair usually had braids woven into its tight waves, giving her an ethereal quality that I could never, for the life of me, imitate.

 

Jocelyn, in all things, leads by example. Most important, for me, is her guidance in social situations. She bears this all-encompassing compassion for everyone, which sometimes surpasses even my capacity to understand. Everyone has a story, she always tells me, everyone has their reasons. I’ve always admired how she’s so forgiving, so sincere, taking in with open arms individuals that most people would dismiss. Jocelyn doesn’t sulk about things, can’t stay angry for long; more often, she’s vivacious and happy, generously bestowing warm smiles and positive feelings on her surroundings, however bleak. A bright little ray of sunshine in an otherwise grey world.

 

Not that she’s always perfectly happy with me. One time, Jocelyn, her friend Lauren, my friend Lacey and I all went on a trip together to the Art Gallery of Ontario. My sister eagerly absorbed all the delicate paintings and contemporary statues, spending hours and hours wandering the gallery halls with Lauren at her side. Lacey and I spent about an hour or so indifferently contemplating the gallery before retiring to the gift shop and spending our remaining time playing with foam cars. We organized a stadium and fake Monster Truck battles, with a small yellow helicopter commentating the action. When it was time to leave, the two older girls passionately reviewed their favourite pieces while Lacey and I fooled around with our new purchases (the commentating helicopter and a green car).  When she realized that we hadn’t used our time to explore the wonder that is art, I suspect my sister was a little disappointed in me. She didn’t say anything about it, but I could tell. We’re still sort of like that: Jocelyn has this awe for life, this appreciation for the little things that are wonderful to her eyes but insignificant to nearly everyone else, and I waste my time battling foam cars.

 

Jocelyn’s at university now, studying drama in education and community. She studies for midterms, works as a Residence Assistant, and is involved in a variety of charities and organizations. She wears sweat pants now instead of skirts; she outgrew her gaudy beads years ago. My sister’s become a young woman, confident, elegant, and respectable. But she still listens when I talk, she still has her peaceable, peculiar self " she’s as giving, sympathetic, and sincere as she’s always been. She’s still my best friend, my confidante, my idol, and my rock. And, underneath it all, we both still have those girls we were: dripping wet, dancing in the rain, not a care in the world.

Reviews

[Pareidolia]

Your strong descriptions make your sister sound incredible in this story.