My sisters and I are friends. Last night, my son asked who, out of the four of us, was the best cook. It dawned on me that we never rolled that way. I’m sure we had some jealousy and rivalry as we made room for each new addition, but once we were old enough to know better, being in competition with my sisters didn’t interest me.
We were raised to be loving toward one another. We fought, of course, but that was never accepted in our house. You’d do better to rip out your arm rather than fight your sister. Now that we’re older, I’m thankful for that. I see adult siblings, who are still fighting one another, and I can only feel bad for them.
When I don’t connect with those crazy girls, life isn’t right. I was thinking about them today and got teary. They not only support me, but care enough to call me out on my crap if need be. I’m not homesick. I’m sistersick. I’d sit in a cabin in the Himalayas if it meant laughing with those broads. Friends are awesome, but some hugs, only sisters can give.