In their family, the brother is strikingly handsome and the sister stands out as extraordinary. When their mother walked with the first child in a stroller, strangers paused to admire her. She was so blond, so full, so green-eyed, and so radiant that attention felt inevitable. She spoke late, yet when she finally did, it was clear she would do exceptionally well. A cat crossed their path and posed a question that tightened words into neat chains and precise verbs. Friends would call for a snack at home and listen as he explained the solar system using fruits found in the kitchen. Even now, forty years later, that same spark and intellect remains.
My sister is an unusual being. Her way of existing, her sense of life before birth, and her unique reading of reality alter the world for those who know her well. She enriches and enlivens the lives of those lucky enough to stand beside her. She carries an extra chromosome and a vitality that feels wise. The mother of the family, always virtuous and beloved, one day admitted honestly that in their home the brother is the handsome one and the sister the wonderful one. I cleared my throat, feeling like someone unknown who needed a moment to be seen, and I shifted in my chair to catch his eye. She met my glance with that motherly, loving look and reassured me by saying that I was the tallest and prettiest of the three. Then we carried on.
That family dynamic gave me a heightened sensitivity to those deemed unusual beauties. The overlooked and the out of sight. The shy, the unsung, the ones who work in the shadows and fill supporting roles. Robert Redford is handsome, yet I lean toward Tommy Lee Jones. The Silence of the Lambs remains a masterpiece, partly because of Anthony Hopkins delivering a compact, unforgettable performance in a brief span. I listen to politicians’ explanations and wonder about the hands behind the words, the minds that hammered those lines into stone. I admire the design of German cars for their solidity and presence, but I trust Japanese technology more for daily reliability. I admire the person behind the chef who hides in plain sight, the public figure who never seeks glory, and the person who quietly shoulders responsibility so the show can run smoothly.
Then there are those who choose the largest strawberries that show no blemish, apples with polished skins, and tomato varieties that resemble fruit rather than a vegetable. They have uniform size and color across the year, a reminder of consistency. It’s the oldest chicken that yields the best juice, even as some buyers pick white-skinned poultry and apricots that resemble peaches because they’ve been skewered by circumstance. I am one of those who feel a special empathy for the least celebrated tomatoes, the semi-hidden ones that people discard without trying. A grocer in the fruit and vegetable aisle calls them the best, noting they’re so good they’re used for canning. You’ll taste them in December and pretend it’s August again. They may not be the most handsome, but they’re tall and sturdy, deserving a place on the shelf of memory.