My sister Ann knows me better than anyone else. We did a lot of growing up together and share a history that spans half a century. We had the same parents and the same siblings, and were taught the same life skills and raised with the same beliefs. Even when we’ve been far apart in distance with only sporadic visits and fleeting phone calls to keep us connected, our hearts have remained close.
We laugh at the same things. We finish eachothers sentences or we don’t finish them at all and still know what we both meant to say. (That’s an annoying thing for other people in the room I guess, like spouses who throw up their hands in exasperation because they don’t get the joke.)
We share similar ideals and similar goals and similar outlooks. We love our children and want them to be happy. Family is the most important thing there is.
My sister is one of the most loving and giving people I know. Maybe that’s why she puts up with me and all my faults and limitations. We have shared joy and sorrow and secrets. I would do anything for her, and I would trust her with my life.
She knows that I would rather put down tiles in a scrabble game and make an interesting word worth 16 points than plop down a dull three letter one worth 40. She knows how much I love to read, and the kinds of books I like and she knows how much I hate goodbyes.
I hope she knows how much she means to me and how blessed I am to have her in my life. But I’m not telling her; she knows if I try to say it out loud I’ll just get all weepy, and she definitely knows better than to wish that on anyone.