For most of my life, I labored under the delusion that I had no sisters because I was the only girl in my family.  I have brothers, whom I love dearly. But I always felt like I was missing out on something.

As I have matured, I have come to realized that all that time I had been living a lie.

I have four sisters.  Four women who are absolutely my family.  I couldn’t love them more if we shared the same genetic material.  We grew up together. We have shared our lives since before we started school.  Boy, do we ever have history.  We have laughed, cried, grieved, and celebrated together.  We have shared and kept each others’ secrets.  We laugh at each other and with each other.  We commiserate, instigate, and contemplate. We may not see one another every day like we used to, and we may be physically miles apart, but we all know that we can pick up right where we left off at any place, anytime.  These women are my touchstones and my guiding lights. My rocks. They keep me grounded in this crazy world. They remind me of where I came from and who I really am at my very core.  I am my true self with my sisters.

We know that if any one of us needs anything – encouragement, a listening ear, a shoulder to cry on, a swift kick in the ass,  a “snap out of it” smack, some levity added to a serious situation – we will defy the laws of physics and be there for each other at a moment’s notice, like the superheroes we are.  Day to day, we wear the brilliant disguises of mature, responsible, successful women – wives, daughters, mothers, professionals.  But when we are together, time holds no constraints on us.  We are 15 again. And 7 and 35 and 70.  And we will always be. We are ageless.  We are fortunate and we know it.  We are a tightly woven fabric.  We are strong.  We are sisters.