The Memory Keeper's Sister

We were discussing the passing of time: growing old and how young or old we felt. “It depends on who is still alive” said my sister. What did she mean? She was talking about seniority – position within the family and the responsibilities with which it endowed its holder.  When our mother died our status as orphans was complete and the upper stratum of the family was empty. No aunts, no uncles, no parents – only us and those who had issued from our loins, to use an old-fashioned phrase.

 

It felt a bit naked. We felt vulnerable and no-one more so than my sister: the eldest sibling – ‘matriarchal sis’. In her matriarchal position, reluctantly but doggedly assumed, my sister takes her responsibilities seriously. She is there for us all. She is the voice on the other end of the telephone (even when we ring at mealtimes). She is the provider of Christmas dinner. She is the bestower of meaningful family gifts. Immersed in her almost lifelong, absorbing passion – sewing – she sits at her table, creating masterpieces of family heirlooms. My sister creates tapestries, wall hangings, quilts and mementoes out of countless fabrics, buttons, beads, ribbons and braids, wadding, words, pictures and a lot of love. She takes the fabric of our lives and weaves them into quilts. She celebrates births, birthdays, weddings, dedications and other momentous occasions of our lives with her gift.

 

My sister’s house is elastic-sided. It contains the family heritage. Cupboards, shelves, display units contain mementoes of all the generations of our family: vases, milk jugs, photos, candlesticks, ghastly elves under toadstools (a lasting reminder of a childhood poem our mother used to recite: ‘under a toadstool sat a wee elf, out of the rain to shelter himself’), and books. A framed black and white photograph of our maternal grandmother has pride of place. She was a beautiful woman. I have the same photograph myself but our childhood remains intact through the much greater, careful hoarding of my matriarchal sis. A volume of ‘Magic London’, complete with pictures, still sits on the shelf. It brings back such memories. The Magic Faraway tree does the same. The complete set of C.S. Lewis’s Narnia stories sits side by side with its more modern counterpart: the Roald Dahl stories and Harry Potter’s exploits. Our childhoods and that of the next generation are equally enshrined for posterity. The cupboards are stuffed full of photos, commemorating every birthday, visit to relatives, family holiday that can be recalled – and a lot that cannot. The garage contains spare bicycle parts belonging to various members of the family. My sister is the Memory Keeper.

 

In the throes of an international move, we have become temporarily homeless. My sister and brother in law have offered up their home to us too. It has been our temporary home for us and a lot of our clutter these past few months. Now we are moving on. But our small country cottage is no place for family heritage. Just enough for ourselves and a few occasional guests, it is not the place for such memories. Matriarchal sis has stepped in before the downsizing goes too far and memories are lost forever. We can have a place on the family shelves. We can store our surplus in the matriarchal home. Her home will continue to be elastic for all the growing generations. I am the memory keeper’s sister – I have a place here.