I lucked out. I've met a lot of people's sisters - Not all are created equal. Aside from the love that haphazardly develops, we've always liked each other. We had our moments; I once kicked her very hard in the vagina with a winter boot on. She told me recently that I bruised her vagina. I am not proud of this. If ever we fought, and actually made some sort of damaging contact (such as the Vulva-Boot Debacle of '92) we'd immediately start crying, devastated that we'd actually hurt one another. It was totally cute.
Equally cute were my sister's attempts at engine noises while she played dinky cars with me. Suffice it to say, I was much better at Barbies than she was at boy toys.
She has two babies. Jack (2½) and Ben (nearly 6 months). She is the greatest Mom I know. She just knows how to do it. She loves them like most people love themselves. She cries all the time, marveling at the great privilege it is to have them. She's emotional. Perhaps moreso than me, which puts her just past Oprah on the Heart-Sleeve Meter. She's also nicer than me, sometimes, I fear, to her own detriment. She is warm in a way that I am not. She is sarcastic in a way that I am. We're talkers. We'd sit for hours on her bed, side-saddle, across the twin mattress, our heads against the wall, talking and listening to Joan Osbourne or Lisa Loeb. We'd play Match My Pitch, a game we created where one of us would hum a note, and the other would have to . . . well, you know. While, objectively, I know that's absolutely the geekiest thing, I feel no shame, because it's one of my purest memories, free of doubt or wonder as to whether I've made it up, or if I'm remembering correctly.
And that laugh. A full-face laugh. I wish you could hear it.