There—that calm of sifting spices into matching jars, cleanly labeled, creating order where there once was plastic-bagged-chaos. On the phone, my sister, Are you busy right now? Do you want to talk? And then, two hours later, I’m sorry for taking up so much of your night, but what she doesn’t realize is that I’d rather talk to her than do most anything else. The people I am closest to are seven years older and seven years younger—there is some metaphor in there, I’m sure, about seven being a holy number and all that. When my sister was born two days after my seventh birthday, I breathed a sigh of relief that I would not have to share a birthday with her. Now we both agree we wouldn’t mind having a day to call ours alone. When we are together we can’t get anything done; a week to talk doesn’t seem like enough. The other month we had a phone call that lasted for only fifteen minutes. A few days later she called me back, making up for, she said, that pitifully short conversation. It lasted three hours.

(Oct. 21)