Chicken Soup for the Soul Celebrates Sisters by Jack Canfield Page A

another often during holiday celebrations and other events but as we’ve lived in different states for almost twenty-four years, it’s hard to experience time together without the din of other people’s voices.
    My sister is three years older than I am. When we were young, such a gap loomed like an enormous age difference. Was it because I was the middle child who learned to play both sides of the fence? If the world according to my little brother looked like more fun, I’d ally myself with him. If my sister started to enjoy the special privileges that came with her seniority, I’d beg to be included on her agenda.
    At times, I drove her crazy. Since our shared closet connected our bedrooms, I could hide on my side and open her door ever so gently to find out how she was dressing for the day. Then I would scramble to imitate her style. For such an intelligent girl, it took her a while to figure out how I could successfully copy her.
    Whether they do so consciously or not, parents usually label their children. This was especially true of our parents’ generation. My sister was the smart one, while I was the pretty one who still labors to this day to appear like I have a strong mind. My sister continues to fuss with her hair and makeup, and deliberates endlessly about her wardrobe.
    We hatched the New York idea because we could catch dinner with our brother who lives there, but also because this city is a logical meeting spot between my home in Boston and hers in Baltimore. Daunted by our busy schedules and raging blizzards that derailed trains and grounded planes, we changed our lodging reservation four times over the course of a year.
    Finally on a Tuesday, we were ready to synchronize our watches for our rendezvous. My train arrived at Penn Station miraculously on time; I scrambled outside to hail a cab. As my taxi approached the Soho Grand Hotel, I could see the slick concrete exterior and the bellmen tailored in black from head to toe. For our one night, we were aiming for chic sophistication.
    In the lobby, my sister was the first person I saw. Arms open wide, she greeted me with a warm hug. “Did you find it okay? Are you hungry? I’ll show you the bathroom.” She said all three seemingly in one breath. I was smiling. Perhaps she would always mother me in the kindest of ways.
    For our day and a half, we walked the streets of Soho and Tribeca. We ambled slowly as we luxuriated in our lack of routine or timetable. Behind our dark glasses, which shielded us from the bright sunlight and enabled us to feel like celebrities traveling incognito, we perused storefronts for the perfect shoe as we marveled over chartreuse suede stilettos and leopard slides. We waded through a used clothing emporium searching for vintage purses, and modeled Parisian silk blouses in a fancy boutique where we needed to ring a bell in order to be admitted.
    During two-hour lunches, we indulged in praline dessert pastries and cappuccino refills. With no appointments to race to, we focused on one another as we pondered hormone replacement therapy, our aging parents, her upcoming teaching position and my writing career. Thirty years ago while I struggled to keep a horridly unattractive pink picture book hat perched safely on top of my head, my mother pointed out to me: “Even if your friends come and go, your sister will be your friend forever.” Those wise words not only fortified me for my walk down the aisle in front of my sister, the bride, but have also served as a reminder that our relationship is lasting and the confidences we share are secure.
    Under fluffy white comforters in our hotel beds, we chatted long into the night and even saw the sky brighten with daylight before we closed our eyes. In the morning, I felt exhausted after a cup of espresso but sweetly fortified for the next sixmonths. Certainly we would figure out another respite with one another. Just the other day I received an e-mail from my