The big sister always wins, I boast, to the sister all of 18 months younger than I. In one swoop I knuckle my best twenty-something Dutch Rub on the couch. My sister laughs, because she knows full well, and to my own humility, that she can out bench press, out tread mill me even after her 55 hour work week.
Secretly, and I'd never admit it to her, I was rooting for Serena too. Maybe because I have an older sister also, and this aint no tragic Rogue, X-Man series, she wasn't so untouchable. This is, the quality time with the sis, hermana y hermana, watching Venus beat her little sister Serena in the Finals. We sit and watch. Lee and I empathized with the young woman's smile, and without a whimper, she wiped away tears, as the barrage of reporters' redundant questions hit her at half the speed of her own sister's backhand stroke. Don't you get it? Senselessly I yell at the TV, sipping the last of the Tuscany. We kill ESPN. (Later) Don't you get it? I say, as I sit here, reading "The Three Roads to Quantum Gravity". If information, experience, and emotion could bounce to us like a sister's tears, there would be no need for press conferences. These things would just come, just as they always have, without words. A sister wins.
Okay okay I have no idea where this whole thing is going, you caught me! One of these glasses of wine (or whine) I am going to let go, but you'll just have to put up with me until then.