BB Grey–musings

Daily writing prompt

What is the last thing you learned?

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that love endures, even when you don’t tend to it as closely as you should

The last thing I’ve learned—truly learned, in a way that settles into your bones and rearranges the way you see the world—came to me just last night, over a quiet dinner with my sister. It was one of those moments that sneaks up on you, unassuming at first, disguised as a simple meal shared between two people who’ve known each other their entire lives. But as the conversation unfolded, as we lingered over plates of food and the soft hum of catching up, I realized something profound: I’ve missed out on knowing her, really knowing her, in a meaningful way these past few years. It’s not that we’ve been strangers—far from it. We’ve stood side by side at the weddings, cheered at the graduations, cradled the newborns, and mourned together at the funerals. We’ve shared the big moments, the ones that punctuate life like exclamation points. But what about the quiet spaces in between? The day-to-day threads that weave the fabric of a person’s realness, their essence? Those, I’ve let slip through my fingers.

It hit me, sitting there across from her, that life has a way of pulling you apart even when you don’t mean for it to. We’ve both been swept up in the currents of our own worlds—raising families, chasing careers, celebrating births, weathering deaths. These are the things that demand your attention, that fill your days until you convince yourself there’s no room for anything else. And yet, beneath all of that, I’ve always felt her there, tethered to me by this invisible, unbreakable cord that binds the three of us—my sister, my brother, and me. It’s a bond forged in childhood, tempered by time, and resilient beyond measure. I’ve never felt she was truly gone, not in the way you lose something forever. She’s always been within reach, a phone call away, a memory away. But proximity isn’t presence, and reach isn’t connection.

What I’ve learned is that I’m always learning—about myself, about the people I love, about the ways I’ve stumbled without even realizing it. I’ve learned that actions I once brushed off as trivial, as “blasé,” weren’t so inconsequential after all. They landed like quiet wounds on someone I care about, cutting deeper than I could have imagined. That stings to admit. And I’ve learned that time is a thief, slipping away while you’re busy with the loud, clamoring demands of life. My sister and I, we’ve lost years—not in the sense of absence, but in the sense of depth. We’ve loved each other fiercely, needed each other always, but we haven’t been there in the way that matters most: the ordinary, unglamorous moments that reveal who a person is becoming.

And oh, how she’s become someone extraordinary. In the time I wasn’t fully looking, she’s grown into a beautiful person—a woman of grace and strength, a devoted mother, a loving wife, a respected colleague, and, yes, an incredible sister. I see it now, in the way she laughs, in the stories she tells, in the quiet wisdom she carries. I’m only just getting to know this version of her, and that fills me with a strange cocktail of emotions. There’s excitement, a bubbling anticipation for the possibility of rediscovering her, of building something new on the foundation of all we’ve shared. But there’s sadness too—a heavy, aching regret for the years that have slipped by, unnoticed, unclaimed. I can’t rewind the clock, but I can sit here now, across from her, and marvel at the gift of still having her in my life.

So, that’s the last thing I’ve learned: that love endures, even when you don’t tend to it as closely as you should. That my sister and I, bound by that invisible umbilical cord, have a chance to weave ourselves back into each other’s days—not just the milestones, but the in-between. And that, in the end, the realness of a person isn’t found in the grand gestures or the rare reunions, but in the steady, quiet act of showing up, again and again, for as long as you’re lucky enough to have them.