And Then They Were Five

When I close my eyes, I can vividly picture their lives; I am one of five sisters too. I also know the joy of sisterhood, the gift of close relationships that are inherited simply by birthright.

Sisters — you’ve got to love them. I can always count on them to remember my birthday (and my kiddos’ too) and to babysit in a pinch. They’re there to hear me venting and to offer advice (okay, not always solicited), and they’ll take precious time off from work to attend my daughters’ graduations and siddur plays. They’re there on those long, lazy Shabbos afternoons, as we lounge around and reminisce about our shared childhood memories.

Sisters — nobody beats them! If you’ve got one, you’re lucky. Four of them? Why, it doesn’t get any better than that.

My great-great aunts were lucky like that too. The Levi sisters, as they were known in their hometown of Chust, thought they’d be best friends for life, were sure they’d always have each other’s backs, just as I do with the four sisters I cherish dearly. They would raise their broods together and grow old and gray together.