For almost all of our adult lives, my sister and I have lived in separate states, both in body and in mind. She left home fairly young, had two awesome cherubs, lost a career, finished some college, found another career. I stayed close to home after landing the career of my dreams, attended parties and premieres, rubbed shoulders with the rich and famous, and eventually knocked out my own cherub. We’d see each other in passing either during my visits or hers. But those were few and far between. Phone calls were lean and letter writing was virtually non-existent (which made me grateful for IMs). We weren’t close in the conventional sense, but we had survived a really rugged childhood. We are veterans of the war of growing up the way we grew up. It’s the way of siblings.

For a couple of years almost two decades ago, we lived about an hour from each other. Her first cherub was four and her second cherub was simmering but our lives were fairly disconnected. She was a mom and I was infernally busy. I’d abscond with her cherub so she could have some time off now and then, or I’d come over for the various home sales parties she threw or hosted, but other than that we weren’t really able to hang out and be adults together. Not much.

I arrived here emotionally drained over leaving my previous position, wondering if I still had it in me to helm another team and make a difference in a larger, less closely held company. The one thing that had cinched the deal was knowing that I could finally spend time with her. As I had grown sicker it became important to me to get nearer to her for some inexplicable reason. I missed her, I think. When you’re feeling frail, you look for something to anchor you and make you stronger. I was excited about it, albeit a teensy bit unnerved.

She was my guiding light from the moment I got off the plane, hesitant, wondering whether the two of us would get along living and working in such relative nearness. We’re so different, you see. But not so different, as it turns out. In spite of all the time apart, we have a common vocabulary of emotion, intelligence, ethic. You know what that means. Sometimes you just can’t get it out of you in Human terms; it’s divine to have someone who understands you even when you can’t finish a sentence or find the right word. We have vastly different phobias bred from the same environment. She won’t share food from her plate. I won’t fly without Xanax and a vodka chaser. We get that about each other. Our angsts are accepted and understood.

We got to do a lot of things that we weren’t able to do during the rest of our lives: swap cars, borrow tools, buy each other lunches and dinners, relax in the company of great mutual friends, escape from everything else around us and sit in restaurants pouring our grief out to Broos while we gulped down steaks. We shopped together, we talked together, we bickered with each other, we supported each other. We dealt with our mom together. Who knew we were capable? Certainly not us!

In the past year I have gotten a little healthier and a lot less frenetic. I attribute much of my ability to calm down (yes, truly, I am very calm) to her. I haven’t laughed as much or contemplated our history as much as I have in the past twelve months. Memories freed themselves from behind sealed walls and they weren’t all bad. I could understand some things about myself by watching and listening to her. I grew to absolutely adore the woman that used to be my little sister. I wish I had missed less of her life.

There’s something to be said for loving those who share the same DNA. It is a more satisfying, more intense kind of love than one can share with anyone other than one’s kids. Mom was right. All we really have is each other, all the way down to the cellular level.

So of late, as she’s been making plans to move again, I’ve been quietly accepting and wholly supportive. She needs to pursue her happiness the same way any of us do. I worried over her stress and tried to insert some levity into her last few weeks here. She got weepy a lot. I made it a point not to get that way myself.

But I’m sad. Very sad. And I’m going to miss her when she moves. She’s my sister, after all. A damned fine person, too. I’m mightily proud of her and wish I could bask in her uniqueness forever.