Susan

My sister, Susan, came over for lunch yesterday. We sat on opposite ends of the couch, had a cup of coffee and talked about her new job, our mother, my prospects and the weather. It had been raining all day, after a long, hot, sunny week. She had less than an hour, so it was a compacted visit.
To have been this close to her for so many years, and not know her saddens me. If I had been paying attention I would have realised that she was always there for me. Intelligent, quick witted and beautiful, she interacts with people so easily and yet guardedly. She's had her difficulties, of which I knew little. I know more about her now; I've started paying attention.
When I was small, I reached up to put my hand on the iron. The house was noisy and full of activity. My father was pissed because it took so much effort to get five kids into the back of the car. The camping gear was everywhere and no one could find a way out of the chaos.
The iron left a stinging red welt on the palm of my hand and I could hear myself howling. My mother, already so nervous and afraid of my father, had no time for this. She wet a towel and threw it at Susan and said, "Will you shut him up?" Susan and I sat on the stairs for nearly a half hour. She had my hand between hers, wrapped in a damp cloth and we watched the craziness unfold in front of us.
She's holding my hand again now. Many years have passed and I don't know her at all, but since Beth died she's been sitting with me, my hand wrapped in a damp towel, singing softly under her breath.