My sister and I sit cross-legged on the front porch, playing cards. I am losing. Not that this matters.

We are really into the game right now, slapping cards on the porch floor.

The sun is low. Random cars pass our neighborhood. The five o’clock train is singing in the faroff. A robin is building a nest in one of our hanging ferns, talking to herself while she works.

It’s been a long time since I’ve played cards. Not since the reign of Queen Elizabeth II. The irony is, I used to play cards all the time.

There for a while, my mother and I would play casino almost every night. Or rummy. After my father died, we were big card players. Sometimes, my mother and I would play for hours without saying more than a few words. And once every 10 or 12 hands, I might even win.

My sister has never played casino before. So I teach her. It takes a few seconds for her to fully grasp the rules well enough to thoroughly kick my aspirations.

Casino is one of the better card games out there. It’s quick. It’s all about numbers. It’s a card game my dad taught me. I don’t know why that matters.

I look at my sister sitting across from me. She looks like my dad. In fact, she has all my father’s best attributes and she doesn’t even know it.

His long, lean frame, and fast metabolism—she can eat an entire pizza and you will still see the veins in her abs. Whereas all I have to do is look at a single slice of ham and suddenly I look like a church deacon.

She has his laugh. My old man had a unique laugh. I liked to watch him laugh. His head would go back. His teeth would show. It was a full-body experience. He was incapable of laughing halfheartedly.

My sister has that same laugh. Same head posture. Same tone. Nobody taught her how to do that. She just does it.

And she talks a lot. Like he did. Same mannerisms. Same self-depreciating humor. Same way of interjecting. Same fervent enthusiasm for The Conversation.

Dad could talk the paint off a fire hydrant. Especially in social situations where he felt pressure to perform. His loud voice would absorb all sonic space in the room, and everyone sort of gathered around him. People like a talker. I don’t know why, but this is one of the laws of the universe.

My sister also has my father’s long legs. His competitive streak. His athleticism. His pathos. His introspectiveness. His swift temper. His pronounced sense of right and wrong, devoid of gray.

His easy smile. His disarming way of forcing you to like him, even if you didn’t want to like him. Even if he was kicking your butt at cards the way my sister is doing right now.

Yes, my father had a lot of rare qualities, and my beautiful little sister got them all. But this evening, I happen to have one of his qualities, too.

Tonight, I have his pride.