I watched her retreating back, smiling mistily. Her step, normally a bouncy and light picture of youth, was restrained and cautious. Putting one little foot in front of the other, she made her way down the hall with two rolls of toilet paper on her head.

I told her she was foolish and wasting her time in this. Time after time she dropped her prizes and they would tumble to the ground. After a few tries, one began to unroll. To her credit, she persisted, either pretending not to hear me or by concentrating so hard on the quavering rolls of toilet paper atop her head.

As I watched her fail time and time again, I silenced my criticisms. With a smile she began each attempt at the end of the hall, near the bottom of the stairs. She rarely made it more than a few strides.

Was I like this bubbly girl once? With time enough on my hands to balance toilet paper on my head? Did I have enough patience to try to walk from the kitchen to my bathroom with toilet paper on my head? Soon small bits of toilet paper began to snow, as my sister’s failures increased. She looked back at me and smiled and said,

“I think I’m done now.”