Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine #12

Big Sister, Little Sister “You’ve got to get me out of here,” she said. “Out of where?” I asked, gripping the steering wheel and steeling myself for her response. “Out of this God-forsaken town!” For two years I had been asking my sister Ruth to consider leaving the southeastern boot heel of Missouri. She had moved there from her Wisconsin home a few years earlier, to be near our brother. She hated it. She complained about the climate -- the hot, humid summers, and the starkly conservative politics. Our brother’s health deteriorated unexpectedly, and two years ago he died, leaving her in the care of his widow.

Ruth, herself, is left with cognitive and physical disabilities from a stroke-like brain bleed 28 years ago. Now in her late 70s, she falls regularly and is on a firstname basis with the local 911 medics. Her last spill left her with a cracked vertebra.

So, after two years of cajoling and encouraging her to admit to her need for in-home assistance, she was telling me she was ready to come west. And I realized with a jolt that I had never really expected her to say yes!

My eyes were fixed on the road ahead as I passed fields of carefree sheep and contented cows -- lucky critters with nothing to do but eat and sleep. My already crazed mind began to race. Life is full to bursting. Every ball of responsibility is in the air as I feverishly juggle in a futile attempt to keep them aloft. The balance and selfcare I crave mock me as I race from one day to the next. My musical instruments silently collect dust and my next book remains unwritten, while my accounting business sucks the creative juice out of most of my waking hours. I squeeze in moments of connection with my partner, adult children, grandchildren and a greatgranddaughter who lives 2,000 unreachable miles away. Where will I find time to do this thing -- this thing that my heart tells me is right, while my head anxiously disagrees.

“What are you saying?” I hesitantly ask. “Are you ready to move into a community apartment complex?” I cautiously avoid the term "assisted living." She has been stubborn and insistent about independence. “I guess I have no choice,” she replied. “I just can’t stay here.” I pulled into a lakeside park and turned off the