When we were kids, my sister and I shared a bedroom. I remember being scared of the dark, and every night my sister would reassure me that monsters did not live under my bed. Her side of the bedroom was always immaculate; my side not so immaculate with clothes thrown helter skelter. And under my bed you might find a zillion dust bunnies, along with four or five shriveled apple cores. With a great amount of envy I watched my sister go to her first homecoming dance in a sapphire blue wool sheath dress. She looked so beautiful and grown up in her first pair of high heeled shoes and pearl earrings. Upstairs, on her vanity table, I became mesmorized by the pastel strands of angora she used to wrap around her steady guy's class ring. And I absolutely fell in love with all the pretty bottles of perfume, nail polish and makeup that I knew I'd better not touch, because somehow, she always knew if I did. Later, I was maid of honor in her wedding. We both grew apart. It took me a few decades to finally realize just how close a sister will always remain in your heart. P.S. If per chance my sister is reading this, I'm sorry for borrowing your favorite blouse in 1967, and then accidentally spilling grape juice on it before hanging it back in your closet. Oh well, the thing about sisters is . . . they always forgive you.
Author of Three Moons Over Sedona and Island Passage
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