Dear Diary:

Every spring and fall for 32 years, my sister and I would meet in New York City for a two-night rendezvous. She left her husband and children at home in Rochester; I left my husband and children at home in Newton, Mass.

We would go to the theater, museums, the latest “hot” restaurants and shopping at Bergdorf Goodman and Saks. At night, we would talk into the wee hours about our children, marriages, careers and, eventually, grandchildren. We would laugh the kind of laughter that starts deep in the belly and rises until tears start to flow.

On one trip, in spring 2002, I was checking in at the Park Lane Hotel. As I finished registering, I heard a familiar voice from the other end of the counter say, “Hi, I’m Arlene Davidson. I’d like to check in.”

I turned and saw my sister.

“Arlene!” I called.

We ran toward each other, hugging and kissing and laughing at our perfect timing.

“Are you two sisters?” the receptionist asked.

“Yes,” we said.

When we got to our room, we sighed with disappointment. Not only was it small, but it looked onto the brick wall of the building next door. Then the phone rang.

“Please come down to the front desk and bring your luggage,” a woman’s voice commanded.

We picked up our bags and ran to the elevator.