When will we meet again?

I got back into the car at the terminal. The sun was beautiful and strong, a cool breeze blew her hair gently.

I jettisoned her on to the curb and gave her a drop-off time-limited hug and squeeze. My stomach turned a little.

Of all the people in the world — no, make that the universe — my youngest sister Kirsty is the most like me. If I had long blond hair we would be twins. We find the same things funny, we find the same things sad.

Being so similar, our personalities when reunited can sometimes spark a forest fire in under 10 seconds, yet given the quiet graces we both have learned, we can hush an angry cresting ocean into a calm sea in moments.

Custard, as I like to call her, lives in the sands of the Middle East. I’ve spent most of my life inspired by her. Any runts of the family reading this, you can empathise with the feeling of being the ‘crazy one of the family’, travelling, living overseas and being — well, free. That’s her.

I don’t fret to see her, nor does she occupy my thoughts by motive, rather by osmosis. She is just there when I think.

In fact, she was prime support for both Dawn and me when we erupted and broke up in Melbourne. She was the cooling sea waters that slowed the white-hot lava and allowed it to form new neutral earth for us to work on.

To describe her loyalty to us both, to be objective and to be a listener who acted with grace and love, will not fit into a column, let alone a chapter in a book. I do not know how one would reward that, if indeed reward is a physical thing.

As I know she lugged her suitcase to the counter, I know she already misses us, her nephews, sister, parents and friends. She’ll be back ,I know that much. I like to think that no matter where she is and how long she’s gone for, everything and everyone else can change, but not she and I.

Until we meet again.