Sometimes, when I’m in the grocery store in our hometown, or the pharmacy or bank or at a sporting or community event, young kids will wave at me enthusiastically from across the room or pass by and give me a smile (or sometimes, even a spontaneous hug) and say “Hi Ms. Aamodt.”

I am not Ms. Aamodt, but I am easily mistaken for her, because Ms. Aamodt is my little sister. And, because my little sister is the guidance counselor at one of our elementary schools in town, she is basically a celebrity. I mean, remember what it was like when you were a kid, and you saw your teacher out of the classroom? It was a shock to your reality that she existed anywhere else.

I made the mistake once or twice in correcting a student in the moment, telling them that no, I’m not Ms. Aamodt, I am her sister, thinking the kid would get a kick out of that. Turns out that revelation was a little disorientating and embarrassing, especially when they realized they had just enthusiastically waved and (gasp) hugged a stranger. So now I just go with it. I am Ms. Aamodt when I need to be.

And, well, sometimes Ms. Aamodt is me.

Because the mistaken identity happens to my sister too. It seems the older we get and the more time we spend together, the more we sort of morph into one another. With the same mannerisms, cadence in the way we speak and similar hair and style, even our closest family has had us confused at times.

“Everyone’s sending their love and well-wishes,” my sister texted me last weekend from the Legion Club where a community of regional musicians gathered to perform together and remember our good friend and player, Jimmy C., who passed away last spring. They also used this gathering to pass the hat to help with my medical expenses. “I’ve been mistaken for you three times.”

While I wanted to be among those musicians and the community who continues to show up for my family and me during this rough patch in our lives, because I’m nearing the end of my treatment and my immune system is a bit compromised, I chose to stay out of the crowd. I was, however, able to be back at the ranch for the first time in two weeks, so the girls and I had our own dance party in the kitchen, complete with makeup, hair and outfits.

“Should I get up there and sing? I’d give them a big shock!” She texted.

“Yes, you should!,” I poked back. “They will think the cancer has really shaken my confidence. Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

As far as personal representatives go, I have a good one I can trust in my little sister. It’s a special gift in my life that is illuminated now as she’s standing in as mom to my daughters while I’m gone.

As I walk through the halls of Mayo clinic day after day, I get to witness and contemplate the relationships of people that sit side-by-side in the waiting room, push wheelchairs, hold hands or elevator doors, or walk slowly together to their appointments. There are husbands and wives, grandparents and grandkids, brothers, parents, daughters, sons and  friends…the pairings of relationships sent out together to weather the storm that we all face here in this wonderful place no one wants to find themselves, well, they’re endless…

I watch two women shuffle in front of me in a long corridor that takes us to the elevator to the parking garage to get us out of here for the day. I can’t see their faces, but their hair is graying and both wear it similarly, fluffed and curled at their ears and off their shoulders. Their shoes sort of match, like the style of their clothes. It’s not that it’s the same outfit entirely, it’s just that you can tell they’re from the same place, you know? One leans into the other, bumps her shoulder, says something snarky that I can’t hear, and they laugh. I’m glad for them that they have each other here.

I can always tell when they’re sisters.