As you probably know, I have two nieces who are extraordinary. Rebecca, the younger sister, is a poet who chains words together, in meticulous lines, that seemingly don’t belong together (something I love to do), but in the strength of her writing—novel, original, but unpretentious—you suddenly, intuitively, delightfully, understand. Then the poem shimmers on the page.

Emily is a writer, too, but she’s taken the path of acting—in New York City, of all places—and while Becky’s poetry makes me sing little songs inside, with her providing the lyrics, I don’t get to see Emmy’s craft because she’s so far away.

Until I found a sample of it online in this video excerpt. I hope Emily forgives me, but I found bit of monologue so stunning—so oddly and happily humbling— that I wanted to set it down so I would never lose it.

And what I will never lose, either, in the immense pride I feel in my nieces, is the presence of my mother, whom I see in them, down to their naturally curly hair. Even more, and even more happily, I see the presence of my sister Sally. She was the last of the four of us, born when my Mom was 41, so she was kind of miraculous to us.

Her daughters, Emily and Rebecca, have only confirmed the miracle. They are Sally’s gift, and her husband, Rick’s, gift to us.

They are a reminder that the integrity of our family, in generations I’ve traced to the 11th Century, to churchyards in London and County Wicklow and Baden-Wurttemberg, has been made safe by a long line of remarkable mothers. Not a one was perfect. They were remarkable instead. They would instantly recognize Sally as one of their own. I can somehow see them gathering around her, some of them wrapped in warm Celtic tweed, all of them waiting happily for the chance to embrace the remarkable woman who was once upon a time my baby sister.