Today is the first Sunday in August, also known as Sister’s Day. On this auspicious occasion, we’re encouraged to celebrate the thing women call sisterhood. It’s a relationship, really, one based on a biological connection or a sorority link or ‘sisterly’ friends.
Now, I have a sister, but I’m suspicious of the genetics. One of us is a foundling, I’m sure. We’re nothing alike. My mother, of course, scoffed at my doubts and rolled her eyes whenever I raised the subject of kinship. A response I found both unconvincing and insulting. Birth certificates can be doctored, you know, ask Donald Trump.
Being two years older, my sister had enjoyed the perks of only child status until I came along. She’d been doted on and adored and the sole focus of attention. How dare I crash her party! Mightily aggrieved at the intrusion, her life mission became making me so miserable I’d run away. I spoiled that dream, too; I learned to take a punch. She could beat on me until the cows came home. She could set me up, terrorize me, and deliver regular pastings, I wasn’t going anywhere.
This year, as so often before, I’m spending the day healing. This time from my own kamikaze tendencies. And, thanks to my dear sister, I’m abnormally talented at recovering.
Speaking of sisters, I owe more than gratitude to the Sisters of the Third Order of Saint Francis. Twice, now, those kind, softhearted souls have saved my life — and I’m not even Catholic. I just keep showing up in their Emergency Room and they keep taking me in.
They are the sisters to whom I’m paying tribute today. I may not be graced with brains or coordination or good fortune, but I have those fine, benevolent women to protect me from my own stoopidity.