Halloween reminds me of what I’ve left behind

As Halloween fast approaches, I enter a strange period where I feel split into two selves, torn between the past, characterized by innocence, and the mysterious and seductive future.

For as long as I can , I’ve been an older sister. It’s a facet of my identity that shapes me more than anything else—more than being a daughter, more than writing, more than anything.

I have four younger siblings aged 9 to 18 years old. My first two siblings are my best friends, our relationship tied through siblinghood. But with my youngest two siblings, I currently feel more of a guardian attachment towards them as we didn’t really share a childhood.

Growing up, my mom would announce each pregnancy to her preceding children with a game of 21 questions, causing us all to jump with excitement. I have fond memories of pressing my ear to my mom’s large belly, listening for kicks.

In 2012, my brother was born. The night he was born, my grandma was over to babysit us and I not being able to watch an episode of Once Upon a Time—which I was obsessed with—because my first two siblings took so long to fall asleep. I tried singing and playing calming noises, but nothing worked—we were all too excited about our incoming sibling.

I was the first person in the world besides the doctor to know my brother’s sex, and I named him Philip because in a naming book, the nickname for Philip was Pip and I thought Pip was the cutest name in the world—nobody has ever called him Pip in his life. Each night, my mom would bring baby Phil to my room, while she put my other two siblings to sleep. At eight years old, I would sing him songs and rock him to sleep. By the time Phil was eight himself, I had read every Harry Potter book aloud to him.

Three years later, in 2015, when I was 11 years old, my youngest sibling, Grace was born. Again, I was the first person in the world besides the doctor to find out her sex, but I only got middle name privileges this time. I chose the name Juliet. I want to say I loved Shakespeare already at that age, but I believe credit actually goes to the 2011 movie Gnomeo & Juliet. Through the years, I would carry her on my hip around the house, pointing at her in the mirror, saying “look, that’s you!”, watching her grow bigger and bigger.

My friends joke around with me that between ages 12 to 15, a common sleepover event at my house was to “Put Grace to Bed,” an activity which consisted of reading, singing, cuddling, and fake sleeping, to try and lure her to sleep and keep her that way.

This digression of my childhood stirs up the mixed feelings that Halloween provides me.

In university, Halloween’s fun—I love dres and playing one of my favourite characters for a night. Wearing fake blood and drinking sweet red Jello shots, listening to “Calling All the Monsters” slightly unironically with your best friends is a dreamy experience that isn’t lost on me. Currently, when I think of Halloween, I think of hazy parties and clubs, witty costumes, spooky pick-up lines, smeared lipstick, corsets, sexy vampires, and by extension, Playboi Carti.

But a different idea of Halloween begins to sit heavy in my gut when I think of Phil and Grace, preparing for trick or treating. To me, they represent the epitome of innocence and childhood. They still believe in magic, and they sweetly take two candies from whatever Halloween candy bowls are left unattended on porches.

Over reading week, I watched as Grace proudly showed me her Wednesday Addams costume. She was adorned in a black braided wig, black lipstick, and a black dress. It hurts me to not be at my childhood home with her on Halloween night, holding her hand as she skips from door to door.

Leaving home to pursue my own life has led me to miss important milestones in my younger siblings’ lives. This confession leads me to experience a lot of guilt that leaks all over my independent life. I’m proud of myself for being the first to leave home, but sometimes I feel as though I’m disconnected, floating alone, simply mourning all that I’m missing.

When I left home at the age of 18, with Phil and Grace only 7 and 10 years old, I was frightened to have the “oh, I do have another sister, but she’s old and doesn’t live at home” be my reality. Now two and a half years later, it has become a bad habit to stalk my mom and grandma’s Facebook pages, and it has taught me something very bittersweet: nothing lasts.

My brother doesn’t insist on walking me to my friend’s houses anymore, my sister doesn’t perform concerts with me during dinner anymore, Phil’s blonde curls grew back brown, Grace is too heavy to carry around with ease anymore, and I have given up trick or treating.

A couple of years ago, one of my friends told me she thought I felt the ing of time quite viscerally, more than anyone else she knew. She said it was scary because I was still so young. Watching my siblings grow up has illustrated to me how precious time is, and just how quickly it slips through your fingers. Not only have I been able to watch them age but observing their childhood has worked as a marker for my own life and how much has changed for me throughout this life.

While I grieve for when times were simple and my baby siblings were truly babies, I’m so grateful to have been given the pleasure of being an older sister to my army of beautiful people and I’m excited to see how we all continue to change and grow.

I look forward to FaceTiming my family on Halloween to see my siblings’ costumes and hear their excitement before they stroll the neighbourhood. Afterwards, I’ll find my friends to begin our own Halloween rituals. All is as it should be.

Every time I come home, the good times are even better, because I’m full of gratitude for the precious moments that make up this wonderful life—in the wise words of Winnie the Pooh, “How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”

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