Dessie is named after my grandmother. I love that name. I aspire to that name. Dessie used to be my funniest, energetic, and fun-nest sister. More talent and heart than the rest of us put together.
She's had a rough time of it the last 15 years. She began to remember abuse at the hands of my father and went off the deep end. She ended up being married three times, left her family, and met up with a couple of real jerks. Now she lives with a Catholic guy, who is a great cook, and a jerk. She says he loves her. I think he dominates her. Her relationship with her children is tenuous, careful.
When we get together, we could laugh for hours. Now Dessie takes a few extra seconds before she can process and more often just smiles quietly than her signature cackle-giggle. We used to eat the candy she shoplifted and fight the fights she would start as she--pit-bull-like--thought she was ten foot tall and bullet proof. We used to hold her down and punch her and she would laugh. That sounds so sick. But when you're poor, I guess you entertain yourself how you can.
I miss my sister. Today she turns 50. How weird it that? To have a younger sister who is the ancient age of 50. To have a younger sister who is light years older than you is sad.