When I was nine, I was gifted a 152-pack of crayons for Christmas.
Glitter crayons. Matte crayons. Even a sharpener for the ones so well-loved that they had become dull.
I blanketed coloring books in pinks and reds, colored landscapes in blues and teals, and with the yellows and oranges, I retired the moon from the sky and brought up the morning sun.
But the green served as my most faithful artist’s tool. Accompanied by a tattered sheet of printer paper, a black permanent marker, and a concomitant assortment of miscellaneous, trivial colors, I devised the creation I was most proud of:
A sign with the number four on it.
With the green in my hand, formatted in big, boxy letters, I drew the number on the sheet of paper with pride. From the hand of a child with a questionable drawing technique, the lines were blurry and the colors bled out from the terrain I tried to make them stay in. But when the completion of what could have only been the greatest artistic achievement of my life, I awaited the fateful evening of each week when—carefully keeping the colors from becoming botched—I could bring the sign along with me. On those nights, I would hop in my mother’s car, sign in hand, and drive to the hockey arena, watching in anticipation to see number four hop on the ice, wondering if he could see the sign that I held so honorably in the air.
It almost seemed like my duty to be his self-proclaimed biggest cheerleader. As his little sister, such responsibility was one not of obligation, but of admiration for my smarter, faster, funnier older brother. So at every game I attended, I held the sign and cheered him on, hoping that one day I could be just like him.
It wasn’t long after that that I donned the same number four on my jersey. My father began making the claim we are the same, my brother and I, with our walking in tandem and our talking of no dichotomy. Our eyes roll in the same path and we both smirk when we probably shouldn’t. I learned niche mannerisms from him and discovered new music that I first heard from the speakers of his car. He was the reigning family game night champion who beat me at every game of Sorry! we played, the best video gamer I knew, the most skilled trampoline gaga ball competitor I’ve ever faced off against, and—above other things—one of the most substantial role models I have ever had.
And one day, cheering him on from the sidelines turned into clapping for him as he walked across the stage to get his diploma. Marveling at his seemingly impossible algebra that had seemed like nonsense some time ago became completing it for myself. Pillow fights contested by my mother on rainy days turned into seeing him every couple of months or so. Family dinners have a seat empty now, and his room that sat next to mine for over twelve years is now 300 miles away. It is now my turn to walk the halls he once did and take the tests he once took. I walk by his senior ceiling tile close to 15 times a day, on my way to classes that were once on his schedule.
Yet such similarities do not serve as a reminder of his absence, but a reminder of how lucky I am.
For one day, even as important as it seemed back then, I realized that there is a little more to life than building the best pillow forts or getting the highest score in Just Dance. There is much left uncertain, many mistakes to be made, and a million things to regret. And in times of such unpredictability, when everything seems as though it might just come crashing down, there is nothing I am more grateful for than the direction I am fortunate enough to have gained from him. It turns out, sitting in those stands with the sign in my hand, I was already learning from one of the most dedicated, intelligent people I know.
For if it weren’t for him, the 152 crayons would have been thrown away and the sign would have been discarded a long time ago.
It is my hope that I grow up to be just as driven and bright as he is.
Because if there is one thing no distance can prohibit, it is how proud I am to be his little sister.
