There are two kids in my family, my sister and I. We couldn’t be more different. She has dark hair and easily tanned skin. She is stout like the siblings on my dad’s side. Her nails are square on the ends of fingers that seem to all be the same length. She gets freckles in the summer’s heat. Myself, I am blonde. I have fair skin. I am tall like my mom and her brothers. My fingers are long with oval fingernails; sometimes they remind me of eggs. I am simple.
Being different creates problems. She is stubborn and easily angered. But she is an excellent cook and has a poor work ethic. She does what she wants and won’t help out unless she is told. In an argument she has to have the last word. Literally. Last word. She follows more than she leads. Like a good big sister, I am patient with her. I can’t cook but I am the first to try what she makes. I can hardly wait for the stir-fry. I love to hear it sizzle quietly cooling on my plate.I give in; I can be found cleaning up after her. I am a push over. I will go out of my way to surprise her. Surprise, I learned she doesn’t like surprises. And this leads to arguments. Last word.