The other day I was thinking about how much I like my sisters.
We don’t get together all that often — but then again it’s not like we have to. It’s not as if time or distance estranges us.
They’re two of my favourite people. They’re sweet-natured and kindhearted. I can’t think of one time when as adults we exchanged a harsh word or a mean-spirited judgment of one another. It’s almost as if we each find the others above reproach. Talk about having someone’s back! They’re both easy to be with and easy to talk to.
That’s not to say those two don’t run themselves ragged or that I don’t run myself ragged enough. We’re all different, but the same too (I remember Karen’s daughter Danielle as a teen saying something along the lines of it being like having three of her mom in the house because Joan and I hum and noodle too).
I’d trust either of them with my life. How lucky am I to feel that way about my sisters!
Last night I was remembering the day, trying to choose which event had been the best part of it. Hands-down it was when Karen parked in front of the post office to get their mail so I got to see her for a few minutes in her bright red jacket, which I covet. (I can safely say that because it wouldn’t fit me; if it did and she read this, she’d probably insist on giving it to me. Both sisters are like that; we call it GrandpaBensonitis, as our granddad would hardly let you leave their house without giving you something.)
Hail to the sisterhood, I say.