balter
“Some people need a red carpet rolled out in front of them in order to walk forward into friendship. They can’t see the tiny outstretched hands all around them, everywhere, like leaves on trees.”
Lines are drawn in every relationship.
Boundaries. Borders. Breaking points.
The fence that marked Our Yard and the Neighbours yard was yellow on Our Side and purple on Their Side.
When I was eight, I used a roll of neon tape to dictate the space my sister could occupy in our shared room. I didn’t map out a plan beforehand. Seeing an opportunity to resolve our issue of Shared Space, I’d marched to the art room, grabbed my favourite pylon-orange seal, and ran back to the bedroom. I started at the window, thinking it fair and thoughtful to give us each a little space to squat in the light to watch the hummingbirds flicker in the maple boughs. Our mother had hung a red bird feeder, and flocks of finches, swallows, chickadees, and hummingbirds bade us for breakfast.
The tape did a good job of splitting the window and our bunk beds, which, we decided, were best halved so we could each enjoy the top and bottom bunks. Diplomatic and determined, we also divided up the books and toys accordingly. I preferred lego and my sister's dolls. I liked the pictureless books. My sister got the beanbag chair and I the poster of A Wrinkle in Time. We opted to move the craft supplies to the kitchen. There’s no sense in sorting the playdough and pipe cleaners. Clay and crayons go together.
We linked pinky fingers and kissed each other's palms to seal the promise. Happy as a pearl tucked in a clamshell, we sidled up in bed (on opposite sides of the glowing tape) and read books thigh to thigh.
In the middle of the night, I woke with a need to use the toilet. My sister, the lightest sleeper in the family, woke to the creaky bunk bed ladder and whispered three words that still linger in my body:
That’s my side, as she gestured to the door.
I’d no way to leave the room to relieve myself. No matter how I begged—offering my box of raspberry licorice (the type you could unwind and braid), my new doll with the purple hair, all the pushes on the swingset—she was unrelenting.
I went back on my word that evening to take care of myself. I did not understand the subtle nuance and splitting in our relationship—the tenants of accountability and acceptance. I was too young to comprehend the articulation of boundaries and trust. I knew I had to use the toilet, and my route to the washroom meant going through my sister's side. Even though we promised to uphold the room's rule, the circumstances had changed. I had changed. I did not need to leave before we made the pact. I had not considered all the potential issues and outcomes of our agreement.
When I left, my sister did not say a word. We each fell back asleep, tucked in our own little worlds of irreconcilability. At breakfast, she would not look at me. When we went to the garden to play, she picked up her bucket and trowel and moved to the opposite side of the bushes.
The neon tape on the floor was a small and trivial matter, though it gestured to the divide in our personalities. Does anyone choose to be divergent? Braised in the same broth, though sauced with varying flavours of saucy and sweet. My sister and I grew apart so softly, with matching pigtails and garden tools captured in photographs to illustrate our physical likeness.
Our Father said it was because she valued accountability while I put a higher emphasis on acceptance.
Why must it be one over another? Do we have to divide? Is there a need to dictate and demand that the other perform like you to satisfy the sensation of belonging?
I still wonder about the place in the middle. The point where I can use the lavatory if my needs change, and my sister trusts in my word.
Photo source.
