My sister is that person who makes you feel comfortable, like the binky you slept with all through childhood, warm and soft. She has eyes like moons. They make you see yourself, and when you do, you feel better. She usually smells of something pretty, but with strength. Not timid.

My sister laughs like it has taken her a while to think of a reason, but when she has one, she laughs like there’s no tomorrow. My sister’s hair is long and brown and curls softly, like she told it what to do. Maybe she did.

My sister is like walking peace. If you try to disturb her, she will probably laugh. If you succeed, it will only last five minutes. She will wither you with a glance and then return to former states of tranquility.

My sister cooks. This is not what she does. It is who she is.

My sister is present. When you need her, she will be there, behind, quiet and comforting. She is like the Mother in every story.

My sister is wild. She is only slightly tame, but people don’t see it. They see the tether; they don’t see the gleam in her eyes. Peace is not always still.

My sister is like a mug of dark chocolate. Not sickly sweet; far better because of its depth.

My sister is funny. She explodes like a pond after a pebble disturbs the surface tension. She starts, and then she can’t stop. But you never know when.

My sister is wise. You can rely on her words. She counts them like grains of sand in an hourglass, very few ever wasted. Ask her; you will not be disappointed.

My sister is silly. Just when you think you’ve got her pegged, she turns into someone totally different. Just wait and see.

My sister is strong. She takes the world as it comes and stares right at it, like she’s telling it to come on at its own pace. She drinks tea on the verandah of life and stirs the trouble in when she must.

My sister is loyal. If you mess with me, you will see her turn into a dragon to rival the wicked queen in “Sleeping Beauty.” I believe she actually snorts fire.

My sister has an individual style. She always wears her clothes; they never, ever wear her. She owns every inch of herself.

My sister might seem hard to get to know, but you just have to stay with it. Compliment her food. Ask her advice. Treat her with respect. She doesn’t always feel respected, but she likes it a lot.

My sister turns into an internal porcupine if people she doesn’t know very well try to touch her. That makes it special for those of us who get hugs; we know we’re getting something precious.

My sister knows how to do things. She’s one of those people who were born with so much common sense that their childhood only lasted five days. After that, she could have run the world, if only her speech had developed at the same rate.

My sister is Traditional. This has nothing to do with what you tell her to do. Anything you say is irrelevant. She is Traditional because she wants to be, because she sees beauty in the forms and hearth-fires and icons. For her, Tradition is warm and inviting and real and, more importantly, necessary.

My sister is like a whisper that soothes in the night. Not loud, but strong and present and solid. She is herself, and you cannot change her. If you try, she will laugh at you. I promise.

I believe some women are princesses, but my sister is not. My sister is a queen. If you need her, she will come. If you love her, she will give you more than you can imagine. If you cry, she will cry with you. If you have a problem, she will help you solve it. If you are alone, she will sit with you. If you are being stupid, she will bring you to your senses. If you are crazy, she won’t make fun of you. If you are curious, she will wonder with you.

My sister waits and watches. Will you see her?