It was McDonalds. Big Mac. French Fries. Dr. Pepper
I was in 3rd grade. Mesita Elementary School Cafeteria.
My big sister had come to eat lunch with me. The details were simple enough.
She had a lunch break. I had a lunch break. Hers not geographically restricted. Mine was limited to the four walls of our cafeteria.
She had eaten McDonalds before. I had eaten McDonalds before.
The fries, salty. The burger, greasy. The meal, filling.
She didn’t hear about whom Corey had asked to the dance or how Jen did on her physics test or when David was planning on going to the basketball game. She did hear about how much Tavo liked stickball and Peter’s thoughts on a recent Goosebumps book and Tyler’s looming dentist appointment.
I don’t remember what I wore that day. I don’t remember what table we sat at. I don’t even remember what we had eaten but a Big Mac is a logical assumption added for literary effect.
The details were simple, that’s why I don’t remember them.
What I do remember is that my sister in high school came to eat lunch with me.
That small window of time designated for caloric intake lead to an early epiphany. Mandy isn’t just my sister. She is my role model. She is my voice of reason. She is my best friend.
That lunch was the start of a true relationship beyond our routine post-church service meal at Jaxons, the forced attendance to her tennis matches and our half-blooded roots.
For the hour or so she removed herself from the overly-dramatized, junglesque world of Franklin High School and immersed herself into my elementary existence without shame.
A nine-year age difference somehow instantly dissolved.
Her sins of turning me into a customizable doll in my earliest years on this earth were washed away. All of the ribbons, sundresses and complimentary shades of blushes, were forgiven.
All because of a burger and fries.
Thank you Mandy. Happy Valentines Day.