A week from today, my baby sister Carrie will wake up on her wedding day. That seems impossible to me because she’s only ten.
Wait, she’s twenty-seven. She was ten on my wedding day. And when I imagine her walking down the aisle, I picture her as the little blonde who was my flower girl seventeen years ago, and I can feel the burn in my nose that tells me the tears are coming. I’ll be a mess this time next week. But a very happy mess.
Thirteen years and four siblings separate Carrie and me, but not much else. I remember the day my mom and dad told the then five of us that she would be coming. Little did they know that I had been journaling that very wish for months before the announcement. Carrie really was my first answer to prayer.
I remember my mother crying after the doctor called with her normal amnio results. I remember the day Carrie was born, when she came home, and how I would sneak into the nursery to make sure she was breathing, waking her up as I tickled her little toes. I remember playing with her in the front yard of Chalkwell Drive, pushing her little bike with “Carrie” on the license plate. I remember when she fell in the tub and knocked out her two front teeth (something I have been mercilessly blamed for and teased about by the entire family, save Carrie herself). I remember giggling with her in church until I thought my stomach muscles would be thrown into permanent spasms. My tumultuous teenage years are punctuated with fond memories of my baby sister. I think that she, more than anyone, kept me grounded to this amazing family when my hormones tried to set me free. I thank her for that.
And as all six kids descend on the little town of Zionsville, Indiana, in the coming week, I suspect we all have special memories of this special little girl in our lives. She always was an amazing girl. And now she’s an amazing woman. I am sure she will be an amazing bride and wife. Carrie never disappoints.
There’s that feeling again. Tears.