I had two daughters. They were not inseparable. Actually they were leaps and bound different. But they were sisters. They attacked life differently. One stayed in the shelter of books, and expanded her imagination, and her faith. The other grasped hold of the brass ring of the world’s excitement, and lived among the outcasts, the socially deprived and the fringe.
If they were colors, they would be complimentary. If they were lines, one would not say the were parallel, but the did have point of crossing. If they were tones. One would be a bold brass horn, the other a piccolo or the Brazilian fan flute. Yet they were first sisters.
I can see them standing in the courtyard, wrapped in sunshine, fresh are and silk. They knew each other in those moments of serenity, where no one could touch them. That inner sanctum of friendship and love, that only sisters know.