‘Naan

This is how I say your name, it sounds sweet music to your ears. In a hierarchy of nine, I’m the only one who can call you big sister. Growing up we quarreled every now and then, but for some reason we always go together. We didn’t like our teeth but for some reason we giggled at each other without limit.

We celebrated each other’s achievements. Yours in academics and public service, so genuine you didn’t get rich. You were prouder of me than I was of you. Not that I was any less proud. I’m not expressive while you never ran out of admiration for a little brother you so adored. I was embarrassed you didn’t hold back praises I didn’t deserve.

I harshly rebuked some of your choices in life but for some reason you never talked back. To think I am younger, maybe because I wanted to be big brother. I talked you out of politics but for some reason I supported you just the same. You annoyed me for little things doable at your end, including how to say or spell a word, even if you are next to the dictionary. But for some reason I always obliged.

Some reasons I could never fathom, must be sibling love beyond reason. We were best frenemies, but you always took my side against all others. While I took the side of what is right, I never left you out of sight.

You composed a song of hideous proportion, about children asking the rain to go away so they can play. A theme so original, with lyrics and melody abysmal. But our nephews and nieces loved it to pieces, especially the part where you belted your way so out of tune. Who cares about quality of your vocal tone when kids are tickled to the bone? Children feel what pure happiness is. Adults adulterate it. And you were that child in most of your adult life.

You anticipated to decorate a new Christmas tree, to lit up our home you were left alone. Now it is in gloom. No lantern or wreath, nor bells or lights. And the brightest star is gone, you little one. Now I realize all along you taught me simplicity, even triviality, as the way to being happy. And so you were with a new kitchenware, bed sheet, beauty product and other things I never care about. I so wanted to fix your life, not seeing there is nothing broken about a happy life.

Before you departed our older sister Gina sent you surprise package you will never get to unbox. Still in transit, it carries many simple things you so wanted. I never heard you dream of fame and fortune. I only heard you say you’re good. Your only child AB, for whom you worked so hard, is now an engineer. In that surprise package is one present you must feel heaven sent. The jersey of Stephen Curry. But you will never get to wear number 30. You just wrote 30. End of your story, but not your memory.