Mary and Half Pint, Or Nellie Oleson and Half Pint?

The wedding waged on and my weekend with the kids was underway at last. I was so excited to show them the dorm where I'd lived, the dining hall (where I'd packed on the Freshman 10) the buildings where I took my classes. I felt like my Dad with all my "When I was here that was an orchard" and "this building wasn't here when I was a student" and "We played frisbee where the library is now" statements. The town had evolved from a cute little hamlet into a thriving college town with restaurants, brew pubs, boutiques and vintage shops all inviting our patronage. The kids had plenty to see and do and I loved the nostalgia of it all.

While we were on our ghost hunting walking tour through the historic town, J. called from the reception. Our storyteller was mid-story and the tension was building so I clicked the call directly to voice mail. Then on one of the next more walky than talky parts of the tour, I picked up the message. J. had said nothing but he had clearly been moved to place the call by the song being played. It was one we'd claimed as our own - one we always thought we'd have for our first dance some day when time and money and custody issues and extracurriculars and other vicissitudes of life subsided, however temporarily, but just long enough for us to get ourselves down the aisle. And it was not just playing, it was Em's dance with Tim. The very man she'd so publicly dissed not an hour before.

I could feel J's disappointment. We'd find another song. One that isn't scorched with the searing images of Em dancing as graceful and light on her feet as my refrigerator, fakey smile frozen in place for the photo ops alone.

J. made one more call to me. Not long after the last call but long before the reception was over, he'd handed his older daughter a copy of the hotel room key and given her her latitudes and limits. Then he said his brief goodbyes and ascended to his room for the night.

He related one final story to me. The one that made him take leave of his obligation to stay. The Maid of Honor (Maid of Horror?), Em's sister Cassie, had presented Em with a special gift. For the two years Em and Chuck had been engaged she'd worked on a beautiful scrap book chronicling their life together. By all accounts, it was a gorgeous book - lovingly prepared and no expense spared on pictures and beautiful paper and trimmings and such. It was something Cassie was clearly proud to present to her sister. So personal. Such a gift from the heart. And the presentation so genuine. Sister to sister.

And Em, the starlet to the end, simply and flatly accepted the book, muttered "Thanks" and placed it to the side. Cassie held her smile and walked away. J.'s heart broke for her.

I can only imagine a similar gift between my sister and me. The people around us would have faded into nothingness as we immersed ourselves in a sister moment. Paging through the book, howling at the memories, weeping at the very gesture of the gift, so thankful to have the life we shared.

And that's not because my sister is so special. (Though she is.) It's because she is my sister. To appreciate a gift from the heart, a person has to actually have a heart. Clearly this pair of sisters was one heart short.