Dear Emily,

Last week, in a crammed desk drawer, I found treasure — a half-dozen letters dated mid-seventies, from British Columbia. They are handwritten, addressed to me, signed “Emily.”

One by one I reread them, surprised again by their chattiness. You wrote about your precarious job in the cannery, your new boyfriend, your pregnant sister with whom you were living, the constant rain. When your baby nephew was born he was “the sweetest little thing.” Invited to your first wedding, you wrote “a girl’s wedding must be the most happiest time of her life,” and then added that your hope was “to find that out for myself some day.”

I can’t help wondering what I wrote in reply. News of my students? My summer vacation travel? Plays and concerts I’d been to? Did any of that interest you?

Your six letters have roused a nest of sleeping memories. I picture you walking beside me along the river path, fiddling with the radio dials in my car, licking chocolate ice cream at the Dairy Queen. It’s decades since we lost touch, and I’m writing as if you are reachable and will read this. I’m writing to the Emily you are now, wherever you are, and to the Emily you were then.

I first saw you in the common room at Marymound, a home for troubled and delinquent girls, where you were living and going to school. “There she is,” someone said, pointing to three teenagers scrunched on the couch, eyes glued to the TV. “The middle one.” All I could see was a tumble of curly black hair. Any expectations I had of being heartily welcomed by a girl hungry for my affection were squelched. You said “Hi” briefly when we were introduced, then turned right back to the TV. Not an auspicious start to our sistering. It didn’t feed my confidence about the weekly visits I would have to initiate.

A Big Sister organization had recruited me and matched us up. I didn’t choose you and you didn’t choose me; someone else declared us “sisters” and neither of us refused.

We were a curious pair. You, a dark-eyed, aboriginal teenager who loved horses, dogs and country and western music. Me, a mousy-blonde, blue-eyed Mennonite, newly launched into a career of teaching high school English. I had travelled to Europe and Africa, and loved reading, theatre and classical music.

Your mother was an alcoholic, your father absent, one sister — you had several, and brothers too — in jail. I shared my parents with one brother. Work, faith, and truth were virtues in our family. You missed the Doberman pinscher left behind in Brandon. I was glad to leave behind the dubious chicken farm my parents operated.

I had university degrees in arts and education; you had first-hand knowledge of cops, social workers and parole officers. I had travelled to Europe; you were thrilled to get permission for a weekend bus trip to Brandon. I was free to make choices, go where I wished. You were a trapped bird, allowed glimpses of freedom through the bars of your cage. No wonder you were a tight coil of anger and frustration, seething in Sister Margarite’s office, or sulking outside her closed door.

Did I ever tell you how beautiful you were when you smiled, as you did now and then, your face lighting up with the radiance of a sunrise? Did I help you feel better about yourself? Did I say or do anything to empower you?

Do you even remember me?

And, do you remember our trail rides? We’d drive in silence to a riding stable somewhere on the far side of the city. By silence I don’t mean absence of sound; I gave you free rein with the car radio. I mean the lack of words between us that I found awkward. I think you minded it less, didn’t need to be always chatting. That’s why the spontaneous outpouring of your letters astonished me.

At the riding stable I envied the ease with which you handled horses, communicated with them, rode them. Once we were the only riders and the stable owners asked if we’d like to go without a guide. Before I could decline you said “yes,” and we were off through the poplar bush, along an unfenced field of wheat. Was that the time we saw a fox slink along the trail and into the grain?

You were radiant when you rode, a princess on her shining steed, animated not so much with pride as with sheer joy. I hope I bolstered your joy with praise.

One summer evening I took you to the Red River Ex. Which rides did we check out? I would have balked at the roller coaster. You met a friend from Brandon. He was working at one of the concession booths and you arranged to meet him when the Ex closed.

“That’s past midnight,” I objected. “Sister Margarite gave you till 11:30.”

“Phone Sister Margarite. Tell her”

“No, Emily. You phone.”

The curfew was not extended, but you weren’t about to give up. Neither was I. We walked the midway silently, our wills locked, all joy gone out of the evening. I was sure you’d slip away from me into the crowd. You didn’t. I returned you to Marymound past curfew, but at least not AWOL. Did you see me as always on the side of those with power over you?

I never asked what deeds or misdeeds brought you to Marymound; you never said. But gradually you introduced me to a culture you were proud of. At a powwow, the elder’s opening prayer reminded me of the prayer of invocation in a Mennonite church. Burning sweetgrass spoke to me of purification and reverence for the eagle feather pointed to the sacred that penetrates the ordinariness of life.

When I think of you now, I turn inevitably tothat summer you were grounded at Marymound. Because of some misconduct you were kept from going to camp or spending time with your family, as the other girls were doing. You sulked and raged, demanding that you be allowed to bring your family’s Doberman pinscher to Marymound or you’d go crazy.

 “Okay. If you find a way to get Dexter here.” Sister Margarite must have thought her answer was foolproof. She’d avoided saying no outright and thought there would be no way you’d get Dexter to Winnipeg from Brandon. But she’d underestimated you.

When you called with your suggestion, I tried to picture Dexter squeezed into the back of my yellow Maverick, my first car. It wasn’t impossible, just unappealing. I said I’d think about it. What I meant was I needed Sister Margarite to tell me it couldn’t be done. Sister, calm as ever, said, well, yes, it could be done, she supposed. If I was offering. (If I was so foolish, she must have meant.)

“But it’s the weekend,” she cautioned. “Emily will connect with her friends and you mightn’t get her back.”

I took the hint and called to say the weekend was not a good idea. “Thanks a lot for trusting me,” you said, hanging up with a furious abruptness that stung. Your voice was still hostile the next Tuesday when I said we’d drive to Brandon the following day.

The fierce sun had already burned through the morning haze when I picked you up. The sky was dazzling. It would be a sweltering day.

“Did you have breakfast, Emily? We could stop at A&W for a….”

“No.”

For three hours we drove in silence through the summer landscape, arriving finally at your mother’s house. You didn’t invite me in. When you came out with your mother, her face was worn and worried; yours, desperate. Dexter was impounded and there was no money to buy him out. Maybe your parole officer could help, your mother suggested.

We found your PO in his office. “You think I’ve got a budget for that?” he asked. “Your family shouldn’t have let him run loose.”

“Sister Margarite has money.” You were clutching a fragile straw.

To placate you, the PO rang Marymound and reported Sister’s predictable “no.” You responded with a volley that turned the air blue.

“That’s the last you’ll see of her,” the PO said as we watched you storm out of his office. “The police will bring her back to Winnipeg. Don’t worry. Let’s have lunch before you drive back.”

But when we emerged from the office into the sun-baked parking lot, there you were, a thundercloud leaning against my Maverick.

“Just get her in the car and drive,” was the PO’s advice.

Three hours of silent driving—your eyes lowered, rage and disappointment suppressed—and we were back where we started: Marymound. My victory in bringing you back was hollow; my sense of failure as great as your disappointment.

When you were seventeen, you were transferred to a halfway house and I supposed that, because you had graduated and were considered “grown up,” you would no longer need a Big Sister. But our relationship was not over, just undergoing alteration. I was thrilled when you invited me to an open house and introduced me to your housemates and social worker. (In one of your letters the group home is “the nicest home I ever lived in.”)

But you had a real sister in BC and the pull of blood was strong. You left the group home prematurely and headed west. Like your Brandon PO, I was sure I’d seen the last of you.

And then the letters came. From an Emily in a different province, and seemingly with a new personality. Did freedom unlock your tongue? Was writing a better way than speaking to convey feelings, like it is for me? You assumed we were sisters still, and blessed me with small and large details of your life. I rejoiced in that and tried to reciprocate your spontaneity and affection as our relationship moved to a new level.

Change was a recurring motif in your life. You returned to Winnipeg and immediately drew me in to your search for a job, for a place to live. You invited me to a shower for one of your sisters and made sure I won a prize. I was invited to her wedding at Stony Mountain Institution. Your life, and your family’s, extended my conventional horizon.

Once you called to say there was a reunion at Marymound, and would I like to go. Sister Margarite was no longer there. You stopped at her old office and said, grinning, “That’s where I used to sit on the floor and sulk.” We stood together in silent acknowledgement of that earlier Emily.

Whenever you needed transportation to aboriginal social events at Stony Mountain Institution, I’d arrive to find an army of your friends and family — too numerous for my yellow chariot — waiting to pile in. Whenever you moved, and you moved frequently, my car served as transport for you and your accumulated possessions.

And then you met Curtis, the man of your dreams. Before long I was invited to a baby shower. Your friends and several sisters were there, everyone happy and welcoming, determined to make a non-aboriginal feel at home. When your daughter was born I came to inspect her in the basement apartment Curtis had found and you had made into a home. Carmen was a black-haired beauty, a picture of health. You glowed and I had tears in my eyes, tears of happiness and gratitude for your radiant joy.

And then your phone was disconnected; I waited uneasily to hear from you.

One Christmas a card arrived with a picture of you and Carmen. You face the camera with a determined smile. Carmen is a chubby girl with your stunning eyes. “Merry Christmas. Love from Emily and Carmen.” No return address. I knew then you’d moved into the role of single mom. I grouped your picture with other Madonna-and-child cards I’d received.

That photo and the six letters are what I have of you. And memories.

What were you thinking the day we first met at Marymound? What are you thinking now? What would you think if I told you I had enough money with me to buy Dexter out of the pound that summer day in Brandon? Like Sister Margarite and your PO, I chose not to offer it. Why didn’t you ask me? What would I have said? Negotiating the fine line between encouraging you and endorsing an imperfect but necessary system, I found myself on uncertain ground.

I didn’t know what to think when you disappeared from my life. At first I thought you would surely reappear as you had done before. The phone would ring and I’d hear your voice and the absence would be explained.

Are you still there, somewhere, navigating this wonderful, confusing and sometimes scary world? Who shares the journey with you? Where has it taken you?

I try to imagine you, middle-aged, your daughter an adult making her own choices. Does she have sisters? Did she get a wedding? Did you?

No intersection of human lives is without influence and meaning, though we may never fully understand the whole picture. A pattern is created when our paths cross, then diverge and go off in different directions, then cross again. The pattern you and I fashioned is oddly unfinished, but it shows areas of loveliness, don’t you think? I can see that more clearly now from this distance. If we were to enter our sistering afresh, I have this feeling that I might do it better.

Being present to each other — with trust, forgiveness, love and hope — is vital to sistering. Sisters, however imperfect, however distant, remain sisters. But you’ve always known that.

Writing is a surprisingly good way to communicate. A letter from you would be a surprise I’d be grateful for.

Your Big Sister,

Sarah

Photo © Patty Boge

Sarah Klassen was born in Winnipeg to Mennonite parents and grew up in Manitoba's interlake. She worked as an English teacher, mainly in northeast Winnipeg. Later, she spent three summers teaching English language in Lithuania, and three summers in Kharkiv, Ukraine. In Kharkiv she was able to visit the place from which her grandparents migrated to Canada in the 1920s, and later went back to visit there several times. She also taught English literature for two academic years at Lithuania Christian College. She has authored five books of poetry and one of short stories. A new poetry collection is scheduled for release in the spring of 2006. Besides reading and writing, she enjoys walking, biking and cross-country skiing.