We are about the same height, have similar sounding voices, and look more and more alike the older we get. Although we have been mistaken for twins our entire lives, the difference in our looks was startling when we were little girls. I was a tow-head, she had brown hair, and our faces were distinctly shaped. Nevertheless, people zeroed in on our brown eyes and equal stature and immediately assumed that we shared a birthday as well. Now, in middle age, even the two of us marvel at our ever-stronger resemblance.
Our outward characteristics notwithstanding, my sister and I couldn’t be more different. She works with the geriatric population, many of them struggling with dementia; I am an independent college consultant, firmly attached to adolescent beings. She plays the piano beautifully; I mastered only the radio. She is talented at needle crafts, having completed a lovely quilt and other delicate projects; I prefer fast-paced sports such as tennis and basketball. Technology to her is a necessary evil; to me it is an endlessly fascinating milieu to be pursued zealously. She is a coffeeholic, like our mother and grandmother; pour me an ice-cold Coca-Cola, and life couldn’t be better.
Between the extremes of our kindred appearance and vastly different personal tastes stretches more than a half-century of love, encouragement, faith, and support. I have always admired her more than anyone I have ever known.