Guilty Prayers

I get self-conscious in my parents' house. What Jewish woman doesn't? Even my mom moves a bit uncertainly in my grandmother's apartment. Though my baby sister, Jude, seems to make herself at home wherever she is--some combination of incredible social ease and supreme self-assurance. Jude can walk into a party of strangers and sit plop on the floor so naturally that within half an hour every couch is bare. Even those swanky standing in credit-card finery will crouch down on the balls of their feet to speak with her, greet and pass drinks. It is as though my sister is impervious of faux pas. I've seen her skills, hosted parties she's co-opted graciously. Whatever my sister happens to be doing is exactly the right thing to do. Maybe she's like her Aunt Elaine that way, or a more vivacious Elissa. Sometimes it seems like she was born with a double share of social ability--hers and mine. Sometimes I'm a little in awe of her social abilities, her bravery with people and effortless and semi-self-righteous composure. Being siblings though, I'm more impressed by these qualities themselves than the way she uses them. Is it a dreadful sin to be jealous of one's sister? Am I jealous of mine? Of the person she is or talents I'd like to have, the accolades I'd like to receive -- or at least deserve. I don't really know Jude that well, a statement my mother would find objectionable, and sad. I don't know how well Jude really knows me. And maybe we'll be closer as we age. To be honest I'm not sure it's important, one way or the other, to anyone but my mom. I don't write about Jude that often, actually. Sometimes, uncertainly, I pray for her; it's easier to do when she's unhappy, isn't that awful. Sometimes I pray to like her more, to be a better sister to her. Don't think I've ever wished to be like her. Tonight I try to pray we could be friends.