Art teacher Adelle Frittitta (left), 45, was 15 when her mum announced she was pregnant. Her sister, Claudia, 30, an illustrator, was the adoring “little buddy” who, decades later, has become her collaborator and best friend.
Claudia: When I was five, Del was 20. In a way, we were both “only” children. She moved out when I was 8 and started her independent life, finding out what she wanted to do and who she wanted to be. It seemed like her life was an adventure.
When I was in year 4, she picked me up from school [in Melbourne’s northern suburbs] one day and we went to the National Gallery of Victoria. I’d never caught a train before, never been to the city. We had lunch on the grass in front of the State Library. Kids have so many rules: “Go to school”; “It’s time for bed.” She made being an adult seem cool and fun.
When she became an art teacher, we had holidays at the same time. We’d pick a project. One year, I wanted to make a red skirt; another time, bubble tea. She’d figure out how to make it happen. She was a facilitator and a nurturer, always so encouraging; I felt she was in my corner. I have so many memories of times that might have been ordinary for Del but which played a big role in shaping the person I am.
A few years ago, I started drawing our Nonna and Nonno. There’s something nice about drawing people who’ve lived a life and know who they are. Del has always loved writing, so I asked her if she wanted to write a story about them. Even though our childhoods weren’t at the same time, there were things we experienced the same way. We’d both get dropped off with them and have the same kind of day, tagging along to the market, being in the backyard, Nonna sewing up our pants. It was our grandparents’ everyday world, but we loved it.
We saw that they got a lot of joy and fulfilment from daily routines and their enthusiasm rubbed off on us. We’ve ended up writing two children’s books about our grandparents [My Nonna Loves and My Nonno Loves; Hardie Grant]. Del wrote down her memories – Nonno taking his first sip of coffee for the day, Nonna passing biscotti over the fence to the neighbours – and we’d talk about the shared memories that we experienced separately, texting back and forth constantly.
‘They say people die twice: once when they die, and again when people stop talking about them. I want to keep Nonna and Nonno alive.’
Adelle Frittitta
Our parents have become sick over the past two years, Dad with a brain tumour and Mum with cancer. It’s really hard. We’ve been emotionally processing everything together, supporting each other. We tag-team. If I’m feeling overwhelmed, I call Del and vice versa. She understands everything without having to say anything. No one knows your parents like a sibling.
I’ve also realised our experience is a bit different. She’s had 15 years more time with them. She’s had her kids and seen our parents become their grandparents. I’m grateful for that – and they’re so good at it – but it’s part of my grief. In amongst it all, Del and I message each other glimmers of happiness: “The shower was amazing tonight”; “It felt great in bed with my clean sheets.” You have to when you’re going through something massive: you find small things to be grateful about.
Adelle: When I was little, I nagged my parents for a sibling, but by the time Mum told me she was pregnant, it was 10 years too late for me. It was better than I anticipated, though. I had a little buddy to care for and impart things that I’d learnt.
I’d had a very quiet childhood, making books and reading, stirring potions from dirt and flowers. Claud was different to me, extroverted and fun. If my friends were coming over, she’d have dance performances prepared. She was a novelty. I became a fun auntie. I could go to The Wiggles with her, drive her to the shopping centre, take her to get her ears pierced. She tells me she really enjoyed those times, but I can’t even remember some of them; we were in different stages of life.
I wondered if we’d ever be close, but the older she got, the more the gap between us shrank. She started coming to me for advice; not that she always listened, but she valued my opinion on things, like when she should get a dog.
I’ve seen Claud mature: I think she’s more sensitive and empathetic than I am. Dad might be sitting on the couch and she’ll move an ottoman over so he can put his feet up on it. I wouldn’t think of it; I’m more of an “Oh, well, too bad” person sometimes. Maybe being an only child for so long made me like that.
Mum was a very different mother to Claud. With me, I think she was nervous, overprotective. I remember her turning up to the school gate with the winter coat I’d forgotten; I felt smothered. By the time Claud came along, I don’t think she was like that any more.
We’ve realised how similar our experiences with our grandparents were. They say people die twice: once when they die, and again when people stop talking about them. I want to keep Nonna and Nonno alive. When we were working on our books, Claud and I became very close and now, with our parents being sick, we speak to each other every day – not always about our parents, often just to show we’re thinking of each other.
Claud sent me a picture of her tomato plant, and told me that a bird took the tomato. She knows I’ll appreciate that, just as I know she’ll appreciate my picture of some random thing I’ve seen in an op shop.
I don’t need to say, “What do you think of this?” She gets it. There was a time I didn’t want a sister, but now I see the best gift my parents could ever have given me is a sibling. She’s my little buddy, my niece and daughter, my best friend – even my mother, sometimes, giving me advice. I can’t imagine life without her.
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