To really know me, it helps terrifically to know my sisters. There are three of us and we are of the corny 'name-each-of-your-offspring-beginning-with-the-same-letter-of-the-alphabet' genre. When I'm with them - which sadly isn't all that often anymore - it feels like a comfortable slipping on of one's favorite slippers. The ones that are worn to a perfect, familiar softness. Their lives and characters are molded inimitably to my own, even though we live in separate provinces and lay actual eyes on one another very seldom. We talk often about favorite things and then delight in discovering that the others have the very same favorite, despite the fact that we've never known it about one another. For example, I don't even have to ask to know that both of them love Willy Wonka candy and hotsauce and guacamole and capers. It goes without saying that they will. I know, too, that they'll both add more lime to their respective guacamoles than anyone else would ever consider doing. I know they love antique enamelware and eclectic decor that doesn't cookie-cutter anyone else's tastes. I knew before her visit that J would love the hall of mirrors I'm in the process of creating. And my neophyte collection of antique linen. We're perpetually exclaiming, "Same-ers!" in our emails to one another as some new revelation or other surfaces. I'm relieved to never have to explain myself in clarification of some misunderstanding or another with my sisters. They understand what I'm saying even before all the words make their way out of my mouth. They instinctively 'get' my motivations and my foundational beliefs about life and people. They look at the world in the same way that I do. They are free to laugh at me when I'm being ridiculous and their good-natured and accepting way of doing so spares my dignity and shows me that I sometimes value my dignity a little too highly. These slippers are warm.