Before she was Sarah Schmidt, she was Sarah Dietrich.
She once tried to run away from home, I convinced her to stay, by promising that things would get better.
I taught her to cook bacon when she was only five. And she did, every morning.
As a toddler on a farm, it was lonely, she had no friends, except for the feral cats – and me.
Late one night, she awoke screaming at the top of her lungs, I drove her to the hospital, she had an appendectomy, and I slept in the hospital chair beside her.
We watched SpongeBob SquarePants every night.
When she was older, she worked at Chick-fil-a, it was right behind the condo where I lived. I ate free sometimes.
After she got her license, I let her have my old car. She wrecked it. Thank God she was okay.
She once got so drunk she had to stay the night in my camper, I made her breakfast the next morning. She’d kill me for telling you that – or unfriend me.
She had crushes on all of my friends when I was a young man.
I gave her away when she got married.
She still gets hopping mad at me from time to time, because I’m a clown.
We don’t text much, or talk on the phone. She’s pretty busy with work. She’s an adult now.
But she looks good, and I love her.
She’s my sister.