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Sharon, 1972
You and your twin sister Karen wore your blonde hair back in ponytails with bangs straight across your foreheads. Others had difficulty telling you apart, but I discerned that you had an edgier look; your sister was softer. I remember those stylish floor-length prairie dresses, complete with laced-up midriff, that your mother allowed you to wear, even though they were completely inappropriate for school. You smelled oddly of saltine crackers.
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Francis, 1978
You moved into our neighborhood, and pretty soon you were “going with” my best friend Diane. She told me all about stuffing her retainer into her back pocket before making out with you in the bushes behind her house, a situation that was unfathomable to me. She was so besotted she painted NIKE on a rock and kept it next to her bed (the first time I ever saw the swoosh was on your feet). I was ambivalent about you because you were ushering my friend into a new phase that, for my part, I was plainly not ready for.
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Tacky, 1974
I couldn’t imagine why, but you noticed me. You were linked to the most popular girl in school, and you would walk with your arms around each other’s waists, your fingers entwined in belt loops. I was two years younger, but you would sometimes talk to me on the playground, telling me I had pretty eyes, and I was thrilled but frozen — too shy to keep up my end of the conversation. You had long wavy hair and a tough reputation, and when I casually mentioned your name (you were Greek) to my older sister, she thought it was hysterically funny that I actually knew someone named Tacky.
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Alexis, 1976
I was almost eleven when you were born, my first niece, and until I had my own, everything I knew about babies I knew from you. I was babysitting one night when you were about two and you woke up crying, which was unusual. I rushed into your room and found you standing in your crib holding your arms out to me to pick you up. I pulled you out and you held onto me so tightly, sniffling and hiccupping into my neck as I rocked back and forth comforting you, and I had never before felt so needed.
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Sandra, 1973
You were a friend of my parents and you would cruise to our island on your boat and tie up for the weekend. It was so exciting when we would see a boat coming into our bay, because it meant people and parties and good times, even for us kids. Your every movement seemed so purposeful, and you spoke in a near whisper, as though you were in a library at all times. I adored you and whenever I could I would sit below in your galley and just listen to your calm voice.
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Philip, 1976
You were the imaginary little brother that I took care of. I imagined that we were orphans and were living in a boarding house where our meals were provided, but otherwise we were on our own. For a couple of years I escaped into this running narrative whenever I was alone, and it was strangely soothing to imagine this world in which I was the adult.
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Anne, 1995
You knocked on my door and introduced yourself, gushing that you had heard I was pregnant, too. We joked that, even though my due date was six weeks before yours, maybe our babies would be born on the same day, and it seemed like a miracle when that’s exactly what happened. It was a kind of miracle for me too when I would drag my sleep-deprived body out of bed to feed my baby at some ungodly hour. I would look down the street and see the light on in your house and know that you were doing the same thing, and sharing those wearisome middle of the night feedings with you meant so much to me.
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