My beautiful sister Nancy is about seven and a half years older than me—so she’s always been my big sister. Of course, over time, we’ve become more like peers—both married women, with families, so the age gap doesn’t matter so much.

But, even so, there are certain things that she knows that I didn’t. Like, she’s an expert at make-up. Her dressing table has an array of a professional compounds —for skin, face, eyes, lips. A few times, when we were getting together for a special occasion, she applied her make-up to my face. It was thrilling—I barely recognized myself.

Her cooking and baking are legendary. I think she’s picked this up from Mother. She is a maven. Her creations are delicious and elegant.

Home decorating—that’s another of her specialties. You should see her home—oriental carpets, sofas, side chair, mahogany furniture—all in exquisite taste.

She plays the piano. She has a lovely singing voice. She’s charming and funny and has the most delightful laugh—that sounds like bells.

We’ve grown old now. The seven plus years make a difference. My beautiful sister isn’t the same. She has Alzheimer’s. Her son, who is her caregiver, told me last week that she’s not doing well. He’s brought in hospice care for her. She’s not able to talk much now. Our conversations last for seconds, not even minutes. But I tell her I love her, and she tells me the same.

My sister has blue-green eyes and wavy hair. She used to dye it blond. But then her hair turned silver, and it is stunning.

Several years ago, she came to my home for a party. One of my friends ran up to me and exclaimed, “Your sister is so beautiful!”