“It smells like Mill Valley,” Nina said and I knew exactly what she meant: autumn leaves, trickling creek beds, redwood bark, and just a dash of distant fog. Like expert wine tasters, we could identify the precise scents that filled the early evening air in our hometown.

On her annual visit from New Zealand, my sister reserved three precious days to “hang” with me, my husband and my two-year old son. I had recently moved back to Mill Valley and now Nina was finally here to help me reclaim the town we grew up in.

We roamed the streets of our childhood, our voices like ping pongs bouncing back and forth. Each block brought more stories until our sides cramped from laughter, our skins tingling with memories of blackberry picking, tree houses and high school parties. Mill Valley was our town.

As the redwoods transformed into towering shadows, we walked down the middle of the streets, so close that our fingers touched. Even though it was dark, I could picture her short, stubborn fingers that could serenade piano concertos and her muscular legs that could kick ass on a soccer field as well as under a sundress.

While our memories spilled around us, we planned for her next visit. She promised to come back the next September. I was newly pregnant and Nina hoped this baby would share her May birthday. She’d cook us gourmet meals with farmer’s market produce, cuddle the baby, teach my son how to play soccer, and help me burn off my baby weight with hikes on Mt. Tam. Maybe she’d even move home for good.

A year is a long time, but I thought we had the rest of our lives. It never occurred to me that it would be the last time I’d share Mill Valley with my little sister. Nina died six months later - just six weeks before the baby was born on her birthday. She would have been thirty years old.

Now it is September again and she isn’t here to kiss the baby or tickle Kai. She isn’t here to help me remember the Mill Valley we shared.

On good days, I feel Nina with me. She urges me to pick the blackberries, plums and other underappreciated fruit on our street. She laughs when my son bounces off the furniture in his Superman costume – the one she gave him for Christmas. She smirks when I put milk in the cupboard and car keys in the fridge. And on warm September evenings, she walks silently beside me as we inhale the smell of Mill Valley together.


By Maya Creedman

Labels: Maya Creedman

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