This is a story about the impossible becoming possible.
Not the kind that shouts from a stage or writes itself in the clouds.
But the kind that unfolds in a small room, with a pail of water, a rag, and two sisters finding their way back to each other in the final chapters of one of their lives.
This is a story about me and Denise.
We were born seventeen years apart. She was my sister, but early on, she felt more like a second mother. I adored her. She dressed me. Cared for me. Called me her baby. We were close—really close. Until life had its way with us.
We both returned home after divorces, older and more broken than when we’d left. And even though we were under the same roof, we were worlds apart. Denise was angry—rightfully so. And I was self-righteous. Mouthy. A know-it-all, blinded by my own S.H.I.T. The kind that keeps you from seeing someone else’s pain, even when it’s screaming in the same language as yours.
We never talked about what really hurt.
We just acted out the ache.
Clashed more than we connected.
Carried our unspoken trauma like matching scars, never comparing notes.
Honestly, I didn’t think she’d ever like me again.
Didn’t think I’d feel her appreciation.
Didn’t think we’d get another chance.
But last year—God revealed Himself through her sickness.
Not in a dramatic healing.
Not through a long, tearful conversation.
But through the quietest kind of miracle: PRESENCE!
That night, me and Aretha were with her. No machines. No nurses. Just sisters.
Aretha gently shampooed and conditioned Denise’s hair, dipping a rag in a pail of water, rinsing it slowly, with so much tenderness. Her curls started to coil tighter just like moms used too. I stood watching, still, undone.
And Denise let it happen.
She didn’t flinch.
She didn’t fight.
She received it.
Later, we had our sister Sherlyn & Sandra on FaceTime and Sandra asked Denise if she needed anything. Denise smiled and said,
“Nope, I’m okay. I got my two sisters here—Carmelita and Nurse Wills aka Aretha.” Aretha and I looked up at each other and locked eyes in shock and weirdly smiling in disbelief at her response.
And the room roared with laughter.
Now That Was God!!!
Right there in the laughter.
In the hair rinse.
In the quiet permission to just be sisters again.
He didn’t change the past.
But He met us in the present.
And that was enough.
I didn’t know it would be one of our last nights together.
But now, I carry that moment like treasure. Because in that small act of care, something sacred was restored.
Not fully.
Not perfectly.
But truthfully.
And what I didn’t realize until later was that the same God who was healing us—was also healing me.
See, I wrote this back in 2016, before I could fully live it:
Confidence is the perfume a woman wears.
Confidence is sexy in bed.
Most people underestimate their potential while overestimating their limitations. Train your mind to focus on the possibilities and you’ll see the limitations fall away.
Low self-esteem is the most expensive thing to buy.
I am a cinema all by myself.
Intelligent people hire people who can do the job.
At the time, it was just a declaration. A manifesto-in-progress.
But in that hospital room, with Denise’s curls softening and her spirit yielding, I realized: I had finally become the woman I wrote about.
Confident. Grounded. Present.
Not because I had it all together—but because I showed up when it mattered.
I didn’t let my shame—or our history—silence me.
I stood in love, with her. For her. As me.
That was the moment I knew:
I’m not just a sister.
I am a cinema all by myself.
I’m scenes of conflict and healing.
Of rage and redemption.
Of breakdown and breakthrough.
Of knowing when to speak… and when to simply be present as looked at Aretha wash our sister’s hair with grace.
Denise passed last year.
And while grief still makes my eyes burn and my throat tighten, I can say this with full conviction:
God gave me back my sister before He called her home.
Not for long.
But long enough.
Long enough to laugh again.
To serve her.
To see her.
To be seen
That was the miracle.
Not healing of the body.
But healing of the bond.
I love you, Denise.
And I’ll carry your “thank you,” your curls, your laugh, and your love with me until we meet again.
Sister Chronicles: 4/4/24
To be continued… in eternity.
Carmen Calhoun