A few years ago I took up the habit of gifting my sister a book on her birthday. Each book is a story precious to me and my childhood or teen years. The age gap between us is a little more than a decade, a fact I used to think would make it hard for us to bond. Speaking the language of story crosses the years in a way that is hard to explain.
This year’s gift is ‘Little Women’ by Louisa May Alcott. I read it before my sister was born, when the prospect of being doomed (I was a bit melodramatic back then) to a life of only brothers seemed certain. I saw much of myself in Jo March, catching a glimpse of what life might have been like with all sisters instead of brothers. Fortunately, I didn’t have to imagine what having a sister would be like for much longer.
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