Chicken Soup for the Soul Celebrates Sisters by Jack Canfield

FIRST PICK
    W e’ll each pick a number, starting from oldest to youngest, then we’ll each take a pick, in the order of our numbers. You understand?” Louise was fully in charge. We were taking our pick of Mama’s quilts.
    None of us wanted to fight. Five sisters and one brother were trying valiantly to honor and respect our parents. Louise is the oldest and had the most daily contact with our mother before her quick death from cancer, long quietly taking over her body, but not loud enough to be noticed until too late. Here we sat, on a cold October day, six middle-aged children in the living room of our youth, with eyes red with grief and nervous sweaty hands.
    These last six quilts our mother made were something we needed to be fair about and they were all laid out for our choosing. Although not works of art for the most part, they were our heritage. There was a queen-size Dresden plate and two twin-size patchworks, both in good shape. A double-size, double-knit polyester little girl quilt that we remembered from the era of leisure suits and a queen-size log cabin that told its age by the colors: orange and avocado. Then there was the quilt on my mother’s bed, a double-size star pattern of Wedgwood blue chintz and cotton. It was gorgeous. And it smelled like Mama.
    We reached into the shoebox one at a time for our numbers, and being the baby, I picked last. Fitting, as I got number six, the last to choose from the bed-cover legacy. Libby was the first, and no one was surprised to watch her gather up the Wedgwood blue chintz and fold it into her bag. When my turn came, the double-knit polyester quilt was left, so I took it, remembering Mother handstitching the pitiful thing. So much work for so little beauty! We’ll keep it in the car, I thought to myself, for a picnic blanket.
    As the holidays approached, our grief stayed with us, mostly hidden, but popping up unannounced as tears over a remembered song or a phone call impossible to make. We all moved our bodies toward Christmas, even as our minds stayed with Mother in her hospital bed before she died, or in her flower garden—or on her sun porch. Christmas would be hard.
    Packages began to arrive, though, and I had to notice that the rest of the world didn’t stop in the shadow of my sadness. On Christmas Eve, my children have the privilege of opening one package before bed, but on this night they encouraged me to join in. A large box from Ohio had piqued their interest. What could Aunt Libby have sent?
    Laughing, I tore open the box, expecting a joke: an inflatable chair or bubble bath buried in yards of newspaper. As I peeked past the wrapping, my hands shook and my vision wavered through a film of sudden tears. Inside the box lay, neatly folded, the coveted chintz quilt from Mama’s bed. I buried my face in the folds to take in the lingering scent of my mother, and to add my tears. On top of the quilt was a card:
    To my baby sister—my first pick.
    René J. Manley



TWO ROCKERS
    My sister has two rockers.
    She lives in Tennessee
    And when I go to visit her
    We rock and sip on tea.
    The color of her rockers?
    A dusty shade of blue.
    They’re on the porch, beside the door
    Where all the folks walk through.
    At times we both drink Passionfruit.
    At times we sip Earl Grey,
    As on the porch we rock and watch
    The seasons pass away.
    We’ve talked about our children
    We’ve laughed and cried together
    We’ve sat with sun upon our laps
    We’ve rocked in rainy weather.
    Dear Lord, please save two rockers
    On the porch called “Glorious Day.”
    Make hers Eternal Passionfruit.
    Make mine the King’s Earl Grey.
    Charlotte A. Lanham



SISTER BONDING
    W e began brainstorming two years ago, but somehow it took that long to plan our overnight in New York City. We were dreaming of a mini-vacation exclusively for us without the two husbands we adore and the five children we have mothered. Of course, we see one