Memories

Two friends attend a party together, and the following day recall the evening with differing stories. Every person carries their own camera and views life through a lens unique to them. The same rings true for memories. 

Lost memories haunted me throughout the grieving process. The layered complexities included a statement at the Shiva by an insensitive individual who said, “Don’t be surprised if one day you forget your sisters.” The words remained vivid as I lost memories of my beloved sisters, Margie and Jane.

I got the memo–not allowed to talk about Margie and Jane because of the pain it caused my parents and my young age of twenty-five lacked the understanding of grief. When my sisters died, I frantically assembled a collage of photos in a Lucite frame of assorted small shapes. I hung the frame and walked by unnoticed. 

The cycle continued for thirty years, ready to be broken and embrace grief and bring Margie and Jane into the forefront of my life. I relish hearing stories. The piece I needed to forgive myself for not grieving sooner.  

I love the photo of the three Lipson sisters bundled up in winter coats. The photo depicts a Sunday afternoon excursion into downtown Boston. We looked forward to dinner at our favorite Italian restaurant, Stella’s in the North End, after a stop in the Boston Common to feed the birds. How did our legs not freeze wearing lace ankle socks and black patent leather Mary Janes? We fought over who sat in the middle of the backseat. Jane, the baby, lost the battle, and we squished together. The closeness between us never wavered.

I don’t recall Margie or Jane’s favorite color, ice cream flavor, song. Does it matter? What I remember is the immense devotion and love, despite our challenges. We fought hard like sisters and in an instant, all forgotten. Margie talked too much, was smart as a whip, precise with eyeliner application, and possessed beautiful handwriting. Jane had the cool girl persona, but inside a little girl, wished she had been true to herself, very social, and funny.

We spent hours playing together times in the basement with the black and white linoleum floor. The toy closet included some of our favorites, like the Barbie house and Barbies, Creepy Crawlers, Mouse Trap, and Sorry. Birthday parties set up with long rectangular tables, chicken from Fontaines and Hoodsies for dessert. 

The kitchen provided the hub of our house until we moved when I was fourteen, which were some of our happiest times. We barely used the front door but entered through the backdoor. A milkman delivered milk in glass bottles in a cool silver box on the breezeway. We sat at the white Formica table for meals, snacks, and homework. A time when free to play outside, go from house to house and a bell rang to summon us for dinner. 

The typical middle child, quiet, introverted, independent one that got lost in the shuffled sandwiched between two outgoing sisters but adored being a sister. Defined as three, a trio, a tripod. 

Eternally grateful that one of Margie’s friends shared a memory of the lively Lipson household. She remembered that instead of saying be quiet, one of the Lipson sisters would say, “be fiet you fu fu.” Our own special language. 

​I would love to hear more stories that individuals close to Margie and Jane will share. I hope other precious memories will resurface that are buried in the barrels of my brain to pass down so their legacies live on.