That was a pledge my sister Merna and I had made to each other. We called it “The Ribbit Pact,” after the croaking sound that frogs make, after we discovered — on one of our many shopping excursions — these adorable decorative pillows with two little frogs sitting side by side, saying . . . you guessed it . . . “Together ‘til we croak.”

Only she ultimately croaked without me.

I cared for her during those last couple of years when she was so sick, and she was so worried about who would take care of me when my time came. I’ll let my kids fight about that. In the meantime, I just miss her.

We spent our early years fighting, mostly — as sisters tend to do; but if any outsider dared say a word against one, the other was there to defend her to the death. Fortunately, it never came to that. And in our later years, we got smarter and became best friends, ignoring our differences and building on the things we enjoyed in common: going to the theater, trying new restaurants, shopping, taking cruises . . . and dissing our late mother. And we laughed a lot, because we knew things about our respective and collective pasts that no one else did.

Yesterday, as I saw two sisters — young adults — sharing a private joke, I felt that pang of . . . what? . . . Jealousy? Loneliness? Loss? Yes, to all three. And at the same time, I smiled at the closeness of the two young women, and the thought of all they will share in the years ahead.

Because there is no relationship quite like that of sisters. You keep each other’s secrets from your parents; you swap stories about your boyfriends; you seek one another’s advice about what to wear to Saturday’s party, or how to style your hair, or whether to take a particular job. You share a bedroom when you’re young, and borrow each other’s jewelry when you’re older.

And when one is no longer there, the other one is incomplete. You can enjoy the company of other relatives and close friends, but it’s not the same. You can’t just pick up the phone to call them 20 times a day when you need help remembering the name of your third-grade teacher, or if you’re bummed because Revlon no longer makes your favorite shade of lipstick, or because there’s a great new musical coming to town next month and you absolutely must get tickets.

Or just because you’re bored and need someone to talk to.

So you resign yourself to going it alone for whatever number of years you have left. But you still find yourself reaching for the phone to call her, or thinking about buying her that new book on the Civil War for Christmas. And sometimes you talk to her . . . afraid she might answer, but wishing she could.

And you go to sleep thinking about her . . . again.

I don’t remember why, but I always called her “Merny.”

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
2/12/25