She slapped her card down, causing the stout-legged kitchen table to tremble beneath the impact of her action.  I could

not believe it; my mouth dropped, touching the linoleum floor.  She had won, AGAIN, for the sixth time that evening.  Seven

games—seven games!—and I had managed to be rid of my Pounce pile only once in the three hours that we had been

playing.  My dad and brother slept peacefully in their rooms, oblivious to the humiliation I continued subjecting myself to.  Life

was not fair.

        “But you can’t win,” I protested with a groan, “Not again.”

        “I still think she rigs the cards,” my aunt chimed in, offering her two-cents on the matter.  “The rest of us don’t have a

chance, no matter how good or bad we are.”

        I grinned then, a devilish grin.  “Cheaters never prosper.”

        “Well,” my sister decided then to speak in her own defense, a teasing smirk on her face, “It’s only right that I win, since

this is my last real night—uh, morning at home.”

        College.  There was that word again.  I had heard of nothing but her delight over it for the last two weeks.  It was a time

in life, I knew, that some loved, some dreaded, and some just skipped.  I am a junior in high school this year, and the thought of

it has crossed my mind more than once.  Going to college, so I have been told, is supposed to be a “rip-roaring” time.  But I

do, on occasion, feel terrified at the thought of attending a “real” school, out from under the one-on-one guidance of my

parents.

        “Just two weeks,” my sister said, breathing a wistful sigh, “two weeks and I’ll be starting college.”

        I glanced up, a simple “Yup” serving as my response. She had mentioned the same thing more than six times over the last

three days and thus, for someone such as I who had had a difficult time with conversation since the miraculous moment of birth,

it did little to encourage much of an answer.

        “Can you believe it?”

        “Nope.”

        “I’m so excited.”

        “That’s good.”

        “I mean, I love you all—and I love our friends—but I’m excited to sort of ‘start over’ and make some new friends, ones

my own age.”  She smiled a radiant smile, one that seemed to welcome whatever God had planned for her, the anticipation I

knew she felt evident in her every move.  “I just can’t believe that I’ve graduated from high school! I’ll be a freshman in

college.  Isn’t that just so cool?”

        “Yep.”

        In other words, I did not understand her squirming excitement over leaving home.

        Leaving us.

        I had never really pondered what it would be like, however, when my sister left and started her first year at college.  Sure,

I had contemplated when my turn came to leave, the changes that would take place—but I had never thought much about her

leaving. And the small amount that I did think about it had not bothered me so much.  I cannot deny that a few tears fell as I sat,

my head buried in the scary depths of my small closet while we re-arranged our room the same evening of our “can’t wait ‘til

college” conversation. For the most part, though, I did not struggle with those feelings. Not even the night before she left, during

our evening ritual of playing cards.

        We had, after all, managed to coax my visiting aunt into joining our comfortable little threesome at the kitchen table.  Our

quirky group had turned foursome, so there would still be three of us left for awhile.  Things would not be too different, and my

chance at actually winning a game of Pounce would increase from fifty to a hundred-percent, as neither my aunt nor my mom

posed much of a threat.

        Once more, she was my sister, the girl I had lived with the entire sixteen years of my life and had been bossed by for at

least half of that time.  I had even begun to wonder if ordering me to hang up my clothes or using me for her karate

dummy—with the assurance that, “It won’t hurt, ‘ae,’ I promise!”—had become some of her favorite pastimes (I have come

not to believe that last one, though, as I still have a tender spot just above my upper lip from when she demonstrated how to

“break” my nose for one of her friends).

        Not to mention the small, insignificant fact that she would be attending a private Christian school located exactly

twenty-three minutes from our front porch.  Just a “hop, skip, and a jump across town” using my cousin’s teasing words.  The

wilds of Jamaica did not describe her new place of residence.  The sticks of the central south perhaps, but not somewhere out

in the middle of nowhere.  We would still see her on Tuesday when she made the long haul back to her hometown to polish up

on her karate skills, along with Saturday evenings and Sunday mornings when she returned home for the weekend to attend

church with us.

        Mornings could now be anticipated with a new excitement.  No longer would I have to dread her quick, artless stripping

me of my covers or rousing me from my much-needed beauty sleep by serenading me with one of her favorite Steven Curtis

Chapman songs.

        Life, as far I was concerned, would be nothing short of perfect.

        Right?

        Wrong.

        When it came time to leave her all alone that Wednesday morning, amidst the cheerful, bustling crowd of other enthusiastic

freshman making the same transition, reality hit like a harsh slap in the face.  Hot tears stung the back of my eyes and streamed

down my own cheeks, mingling with hers and wetting the material of her T-shirt.  I could not let her go.  I did not want to let

her go.  She was (and is) not just my sister but my best friend.  And while I knew her being my sister would never change, I

knew at the same time that things would never be the same.

        There would be no more nights to exchange our frustrations and excitements, watch old movies, slave over our

oh-so-beloved Spanish, or take a few minutes and go to the drive-in down the street.  I realized, then, just how much she

meant to me.  How much I would miss her and how much that I had, essentially, taken her for granted—her always being there,

always standing by me during those awkward and uncomfortable situations when I had no one else to sit with or to talk to.

        I still have moments when I want to bury my face in my pillow and sob over the fact that she has moved on in life; that we

will, most likely, never live in the same house again . . . but I now thank God with a much greater and much more sincere

appreciation for the sister He has given me.  She is not perfect, despite her teasing declaration that, “I speak truth”—which

evokes laughter from us even now—but I would not trade her for another older sister in the world.

        That leaves two of us—of our original four—still living under the same roof.  Just my mom and me (and dear Auntie M

who visits from time to time).

        I think we will make it, though.

        Now . . . if I could just work on exercising the same patience and appreciation for my younger brother.

        Then life would be perfect . . . or, at least, nearer to it.