The eldest.

 

My sister Megan, 1970-something. Purgatory ski resort, just north of Durango, CO.

This morning, when I liberally applied my new Lush conditioner, the smell reminded me of my sister, Megan.

I don’t know what it was. Maybe the chalky orangeness of it. Maybe the woodsy sweetness in it. Whatever it was, it was as if she’d walked past the room and I could smell her.
My sister Megan, for those who don’t know, is really the closest thing I ever had to a mother. She’s thirteen and a half years older than me and took care of me when I was little, both before and after my mother died.
If I could paint a picture of Megan with words, first I would brush her face with a stroke of dignity, followed by a sigh of stately grace. For her hair, I would layer burnt umber with a swash of heated passion. Her skin with muted eggshells and her eyes, mossy olive and emerald.
I remember these things when I think of my sister:

Snow
Mountains
Colorado
Cold
Sun
Skiing
Durango
Orange Volkswagen Beetle
Siberian husky
Norwegian meatballs
Nutmeg
Macaroni and cheese
Auburn
Royal Albert teacups
Madame Alexander dolls
Margaret
Stern
Strong
Integrity
Respect
Peanut Butter
Sewing machine
Yarn needle
Cowboy hats boots shirts western
The Bar-D Ranch