My sister, seven years older than I, transformed right beneath my nose. From the time I was born until the time she moved out, left us with only five years to establish a relationship. Her recently dyed blonde hair, her broken out skin, and now pampered face reflected the reality of her age. The switch to her teenage years left awareness in my gaze and an emptiness in my heart. No matter how much she grew out of her "little girl" ways or how much I discerned a separation, we maintained the same old relationship in a realm where no one else existed.

When passing from the hallway into our matching canopy set bedroom, the sky faded away outside the square window as the sun began its’ descend to the west. The main light snapped off, the door clicked shut, and the flickering desk lamp created some sort of tranquil edge in the room. We fell into a steady rhythm at the tiny white desk in the corner. My sister leaned into the piece of paper, lightly sketching multiple lines. The images captured me. The animals jumped off the page, as though alive. The barn sat high and mighty above the grass, bare without any color, but detailed enough next to everything else. However, the crinkle of her nose stated that something appeared wrong. Erase-erase-erase. Scribble-squabble-scribble. She held the image at arm’s length, a glint in her eye hinting that it was not quite correct. Glued to my seat, I patiently waited for her to perfect the picture. A white picket fence soon surrounded the horses, pigs, and chickens. Clouds drifted over the barn. She handed the paper over to me after an approving look dashed across her face.

We pulled out the box of colored pencils and started the second step. I tried my hardest to stay in the lines. “Red for the barn..white for the door..red for the barn…white for the door,” I repeated over and over in my head. Not a word has yet slipped through either one of our lips. The silence was our peaceful way of bonding. My sister filled in the spots I just colored; making sure each detail was accurate. She colored over my red on the barn, making it vivid and lively. It was not that she was correcting me; it was simply just the way we worked together. After quite some concentration, a smile crept over her face as she glanced at me- approval. Our picture was finished. I snatched it and triumphantly pinned it to the collection on the bulletin board.

On other days, I barged into the entryway, shocked to silence upon hearing elegant notes from the piano. Daring not to breathe and afraid to interrupt, I would sneak into the living room. With her butt scooted way to the edge of the seat, she leaned into and away from the hands that moved back and forth on the keyboard. My ear cocked with recognition - Fur Elise by Ludwig van Beethoven. I grinned as I waited for my mother to notice the same thing I did. That day, however, she was busy doing her kitchen work. “That song? Play something else why don't you! I hate that song!” she normally yelled in the middle of her work. My sister played Fur Elise so many times with so many variances (allegretto, allegro grazioso, tempo rubato, staccato, marcato, etc.) that my mother grew to hate it. I secretly loathed whenever my mother demanded to change the song. It ruined one of our few silent moments.

Five years flew faster than I imagined. We grew apart from each other slowly as the years went on. She moved to follow a dream of her own. A new family now depends on her for care and love. I soon transformed into the stage I watched her grow up in. With age comes responsibility. No matter what changed though, she still remained a major influence and role model in my life. The time we were granted always felt valuable. She is my one and only sister. We hold an unspeakable bond.