My favorite sister was the middle child of five. For want of a boy on their third try, my folks issued her the male spelling of a name they’d already selected: Kerry Lynn. Born at sunrise in April, her sunset was expedited by breast cancer. She was comic relief all her life. Self-deprecating, humorous and humble, she called herself thunder thighs. She was proud of her huge muscular Crumb-esque drumsticks. She was a horsewoman who became a hiker of mountain terrain all her life. Each winter mom would braid a new wool rug for another room in the house. Kerry would plop down on the substantially unforgiving oval wool rug and leg wrestle-to-rug-burn all takers. She was quick, and if you were smaller than her, she’d flip you to the other side of the rug, hump over head.
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