The Hidden Sister

I'm blogging from a friend's since my home computer has gone kaput. It's a bit rushed blogging from my brother's since there is rarely a break during the day when people aren't flocking to his home. I'd say hundreds of people have visited his home to pay condolences and much to their amazement, hardly anyone knew of my existence. Not that brother has much to be ashamed of with me but I'm not a leader of any community - like my sister's husband is. He's got more to be proud of with her. But we don't get together for holidays, only when family comes in from overseas a couple of times a year, so people don't know. I wanted to make light of the situation and said - well you have to hide your gems, or "yes, I'm the closet sister" or "I'm the one swept under the rug". What I really wanted to do was ream him out after the week is finished.

Seeing friends from the time I lived in the Bronx was the most emotional part of the day. After they'd leave, I'd think of "those years" (the 60s and early 70s) in "that neighborhood" in the Bronx, and got all teary eyed. I try to capture those moments more clear, but find them foggy. I thought of so many things the past few days, like going back to my old apartment where my family lived since 1940 (until 1977) and knocking on the present tenent's door, asking if I could see the place one more time. Or seeing the ancient photos of my ancestors, especially the one of the great-grandmother who I am named after. She was corsetted to the hilt and looked very stern and tough in that photograph. I imagined her running after her husband with a frying pan in her hand. She looked like a blonde Russian peasant. This was my dad's maternal side. His paternal side's ancestors looked dark and swarthy, like Gypsies. I wondered what they were like.