1687 is the street address of the home where my sister and I live. There is no street name to add personality, just an assigned number. It is a cold numeric name for a house that is anything but detached and cold. For four generations, this house has been a part of our family. Like a sister or a mother, it has watched over the women who have made this place a home. It has borne witness to the uncommon bond of identical people living together mimicking the domestic acts of those who came before.
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