Yesterday afternoon
I was startled by the intensity of a thought that has rarely, if
ever, crossed my mind. I wish Queen Mab had a sister. (I blame an onslaught of flowery pink facebook memes on sisterhood for the lapse, and possibly a song from Frozen having got stuck in my head) My
childhood memories
of having a sister close to my age glowed with rosy
nostalgia, and I even briefly imagined generic
scenes involving fashion and makeup that had never actually taken
place.
All
this lasted for approximately three nanoseconds. I love my sister and
respect the hell out of her badassery. We
could talk on the phone for hours if our children would let us, and I
often miss her, since we’ve spent much of our adult lives half a
country apart.
And
when we lived in the same house we were frequently sick of each
other, and there was a
simmering rivalry that put an uncomfortable edge on the activities we
had in common. We
never did each other’s makeup. I’m
so glad we have each other, and I’m sure we were an education to
each other growing up, too, about
getting along with someone who is radically different from you!
But there was nothing uniquely magical about the sisterly
relationship (my sister does bear a striking resemblance to Anna from
Frozen, though).
Queen
Mab and the Golden Boy are, as I write this, immersed in some sort of
fantastical imaginary landscape deep in the overgrowth wilderness of
the back of our yard. They spent hours out there yesterday and will
probably do so again today. They wear each other's clothes and
shoes and cover for each other while
they’re sneaking fistfuls of chocolate chips out of the pantry. If
they were any closer, they would be a creepy codependent cult.
They’re perfectly capable
of making their own magic.
