A Sister's Love, at the Bow of a Ship

Roxane Salonen recaps a recent moment when her only sister reminded her of the power of a quiet hug.

In our growing-up years, some people thought we were twins. Our grandmother had taken to sewing clothes and begun fashioning outfits for us; most of them identical. Additionally, we were just shy of 16 months apart—nearly close enough to be considered “Irish twins.” And in school, we were only one grade apart.

She was my security blanket, my right arm, my safety. Years ago, when the daycare bus left without me (I’d been too absorbed in picking dandelions to notice its arrival), after running toward the vehicle, dust kicking up in its wake with the rig finally slowing, I was ushered up entrance stairs and into my waiting, big sister’s arms. I was only three, and she, four, and yet, I already considered her home. And she was willing to be that to me.

There are so many other stories I could tell about how I had been saved by the arms of my only sibling, Camille, but that is for another article, perhaps. For now, I’ll skip those many in-between years to speed into the present.

We are no longer preschoolers, but wives and middle-aged mothers and, in her case, a grandmother. These are the days we used to dream about while playing dolls and making up names for our “babies” and our pretend husbands. We are living in the future that once was make-believe.

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But recently, while gathered for a family reunion in a beautiful city near Lake Superior, I discovered the loving arms of my big sister once again, and how, though decades have spanned those years since our doll-dressing days, little has changed, despite our now being almost 55 and 56.

We were on an afternoon boat cruise, and early in the adventure, something happened to pull me into a very sad, even distraught, place. It wasn’t just one thing, but many things accumulating. The provoking incident occurred just before boarding, plunging me into a tailspin of emotions. And now, I was stuck on a ship for two hours with no place to hide.

And yet, not wanting to cause a scene, I sought out a quiet corner at the front of the ship’s main deck. Instead of enjoying the cruise with the others, I settled into that crunched spot and stared out into the miles of cool water, letting my tears drop out of sight from the crowd.

As much as I didn’t want to be separated in what was supposed to be a moment of unity, I couldn’t shrug off my feelings. The spigot now open, it was impossible to stop the charge.

I stayed there, alone, until about 10 minutes before docking. My sister, who had been on the upper deck with some of our family most of the duration, had now descended to the lower deck, and noticed me tucked into that corner spot. “Are you okay?” she asked. After a moment of hesitation, I said, “No, not really,” and tried to explain what had caused me to duck out. But I was grappling for the right words, embarrassed for not having been able to be more pulled together.

Without hesitation, then, she put her arms around me, saying only, “I’m sorry that happened.” And in her strong, sisterly embrace, the decades narrowed, and suddenly, I was no longer a woman with more than a half-century under her belt and five young-adult children, but a small child myself, feeling abandoned, disrespected and misunderstood, running up the stairs of a bus and into familiar, loving arms.

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I certainly did not feel strong in that moment on the ship. Nor do I feel strong in the telling of it. But it’s worth remembering, not for the isolative feelings, but for the love that met and soothed them. It seemed so simple, and yet it was so effective in meeting my need. With few words exchanged, I quickly realized that that was where the power of that moment could be experienced—in her quiet embrace. Just like on the day of the bus ride that almost got away.

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With few words exchanged, I quickly realized that that was where the power of that moment could be experienced—in her quiet embrace. #CatholicMom

Reflecting on that day on the ship now, I see how those precious arms, which had given me the strength to face the rest of the day and beyond, were, in a sense, God’s very arms, extended through the compassionate soul of a little girl: a girl who, though all grown up now, continues to be one of the strongest, most caring people I’ve ever known.

I hope that when she reads this, she will know how much that moment meant, and all the moments before it when her comforting, quiet arms met with my heaving, hurting heart, and brought me back to life again.

Q4U: What does sisterly, or brotherly, love mean to you?