I've always been fascinated by the relationships between sisters. I am an only child, though my parents had a baby girl on each side of me, both of whom passed away as infants. I would have been the middle child. The second of three girls. Ever since I can remember, I've wondered what my life would have been like had both of those girls lived longer than a few weeks. Would I have been more laid back as a second child? Would we have shared a room growing up, fought and bickered regularly, or would we have gotten along swimmingly? Would I have been like other middle children? Like Mary Bennet? Like Jo or Beth March? More importantly, would I have had someone to call now that we were all adults, when I needed to talk? To laugh about something one of our parents said or did. To reach out along that connection that made us not only siblings but sisters. And so, in the absence of the real thing, I've found myself gravitating toward especially well-drawn portraits of sisters in literature. There really are so many to choose from.
The classic relationships between Elizabeth and Jane in Pride and Prejudice and between Elinor and Marianne in Sense and Sensibility have, of course, long been favorites. The more reserved older sister, the more lively younger. They often seem to come that way, don't they? And I admit that so much of the draw for me is the sometimes wild difference in personalities, thrown into such touching relief by the bond that nevertheless binds them, by the loyalty that keeps them together when the world and men buffet them about. The quality of the relationship trumps others, outlasts others, and for that fact alone I find it compelling.
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