And so it was: the first daughter. Born to a woman, at that moment of birth, bordering on the frantic from the excruciating pain, which extraordinarily intensified the fear of what felt like total isolation and aloneness. You may be born alone and die alone. She now knew you also give birth alone.

Finally. Her baby was born. Crying, uncontrollably. Until she wasn’t. In her Mom’s arms. Then, time for baby and mother to sleep, in their respective spaces. As the baby was being moved, now it was time for the mother to cry, uncontrollably. After nine months, just what else would one expect?

An eternity, six years later: the second daughter. Calm. Mother, child and the birth.

As the years would roll on, the daughters would mirror their births. The older, intense and dramatic. The younger, passive and sweet. They would rarely talk, much less confide. The older thinking the younger, apparently unknowing, so undeserving of her time. The younger thinking her older sister a bit crazed. Ok, a lot crazed. A universe away from the other. Until, somehow, they were not.

Not sure when all that frustration and angst between sisters ends, but at some point it does. These two girls, beautiful babies from the same Mom, turning into women, seemingly and suddenly, realize just how blood feels in their bones, and it is good. For each other. For Mom. And for the world. All the words can never decipher and truly capture the mystery of what it is to be human. Somehow, blood and intuition can. Or, at least, sometimes does. And so it does for these two sisters.

We’ll dub them S and S. The same initials for their names. And, oh yes, something else is exactly the same as well. Their time of birth: 3:38 p.m.

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