Until We Meet Again...

One hundred and thirty-two words on a website.

There was so much more to my sister than that.

My parents named her Zita Marlene. “Zita” because that was Mama’s middle name and “Marlene” because…I don’t know why. Actually, Daddy named both of us and I never got around to asking about his selection process.

Almost eight years later I came along, and Daddy named me Rita. Zita swore that he chose "Rita” because it means "precious pearl.” Uh, okay, but the fact that he made “Darlene” my middle name rendered that story suspect.

We never agreed on the explanation. But I enjoyed the argument.

I’ve been writing my whole life. In middle and high school. College. A small-town daily newspaper. Volunteer organizations. Churches. I wound up online with “A Moment’s Notice” and eventually published two novels through Amazon.

But Zita was the storyteller in the family.

She would spin intricate, telenovela-worthy tales for my collection of Barbies. Mystery! Romance! Disappointment! And, above all: Drama! Zita allowed me to contribute dialogue for Barbie or Ken or Midge (does anyone remember Midge?) but she was a tough director, maintaining the integrity of the story. I still remember her telling me that no girl going out for dinner with a boy would ever order two hot dogs (or was it a hamburger?) along with fries and a milkshake.

Lucky for me, Mr. Pettit respected a healthy appetite.

I’m still in awe of the fact that she would play with me with such gusto, long past her own Barbie years. A small thing. And a huge thing.

And then there were the Christmas Eve shows.

Our parents were married on Christmas Eve and early in my childhood Zita decided we should put on a show in honor of their anniversary. I can’t recall when the shows started, but they didn’t end until Zita left home.

Zita created the programs we’d give our audience—Mama and Daddy—when they took their places on the long cream-colored brocade sofa in the living room. We’d sing Christmas carols, recite “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” and read the Nativity story from the book of Luke. After I started taking lessons from Miss Virginia, I’d plink out “Silent Night” or “Jingle Bells” on the piano.

Our last conversation was on December 24, 2021. Zita called because Mama and Daddy were on her mind, as they were on mine. We reminisced about the Christmas Eve shows and I told her I had described them when asked about a favorite Christmas memory. I thanked her for making them possible.

As adults we learned to accept the miles between us, whether a hundred when I went away to college, or thousands as I led the life of a military wife. We saw each other more often when I settled on the East Coast, but we stayed in touch mostly through phone calls.

We’d talk about our mutual love of make-up and skin care and fashion; I thought of us not as vain, but sparkly. Whenever we got together, Zita arrived looking beautiful.

Food was a favorite topic. We’d share memories of Mama’s cooking and our attempts to replicate some of her recipes, especially her asparagus casserole. In a conversation last fall about her visit to a new restaurant, Zita described the bread pudding in such exquisite detail I could taste it. We both had a thing for bread pudding.

We also shared a love of cruising. Thanks to Zita I know that you can get a great deal on vanilla extract in Cozumel, Mexico, and that magnets are awesome for attaching paperwork to the walls of your cabin.

And always, always, there was laughter. My sister carried many burdens in her life and in recent years her health started to give way. But Zita managed to find a molecule of humor in every situation, no matter how dire.

Around a year or two ago I started encouraging her to write her own novel. I wish she had put some of her creativity, and especially her humor, into the printed word. And now the chance is gone.

Or not.

Zita wrote a story of fierce love. For her parents. For her husband. For her children and grandchildren. For me.

For God.

Now she is continuing that story in the presence of Jesus Christ, her Savior.

And she finally knows how to make that asparagus casserole.

Rest in peace, sweet sister. I love you.

Zita Marlene Vanesse

November 22, 1950—January 25, 2022