Our family had a penchant for matching clothes. When I was eight the girls got green gingham nighties, and there was the season of orange parachute fabric. We all had some version of that to wear. There was a December 24th when we stood around as teenagers and young adults, laughing about how we had outgrown the need. Then one by one we nervously admitted that we hadn't. My sister dashed to the store and came back with a bolt of white flannel and cherry piping, which she whipped into nightshirts for us. Close call. 

But the apex of our coordinated efforts was a set of red and blue striped terry cloth jumpsuits. With belts. While it was a passable fashion statement for the girls in the sixties, coercing my father and brother to wear them probably eroded their masculinity a notch. The humor of it intensified when we stood at the entrance of a Howard Johnsons waiting to be seated. The waitress blinked. 

"Are you together?"

Dressing my own children in Christmas checks, or black velvet kept my Featherweight humming. By the time the twins came along all resistance was futile and I indulged in a pair of matching dresses for every letter of the alphabet.

Apples. Butterflies. Christmas. Dancers. Easter. Fairies. Gardens.

There is a tug in the human heart to fit in. To be wanted. To stay connected. We wear a team shirt to the game. Put on a uniform for work. Pull out the red, white and blue plaid shorts for one more parade. At camp this week the leaders wore colored tees so the children would know where they belonged. 

On the last day they huddled arm in arm for pictures. If anyone had any question they could have simply asked. 

"Are you together?"

"Why, yes. Yes we are."