older sister

Today, Patricija gets a “referral” from the doctor for a blood test.
“Well, here we go,” a wave of heat runs through my thoughts.
In the waiting room, I glance at her hesitantly.
But she sits as if she swallowed a stake.
No sniffles.
No discussions about why the world is so cruel and unfair.
She just sits and waits patiently.

They call her in.
She steps resolutely into the procedure room.
Settles into the chair and extends her arm.

The nurse finishes quickly,
and Patricija thanks her and walks out with a smile.

On the way back, I praise her.
And I remind her of a time, not too long ago, when I literally had to pry this day’s brave girl off the handle of the procedure room door, where she had clung with both hands, loudly declaring she would not go in under any circumstances.

Patricija laughs like she’s in a joke, then adds:
“Back then, I was Dominykas’ little sister.
And now—Mykolas’ older one.
Big sisters don’t cry over little things.”

Then she adds:
“Mom, did you see? I didn’t even close my eyes!”

For sisters.
Big and small. Together.

They grow up, carrying their own little quirks, which back then stretched what felt like the last nerve, as we listened to anecdotes worth a hearty laugh.

MUA,
V.