Here’s how to be an older sister:
For Anaa
The first time you land your eyes on her, she will be asleep, quiet and pink. Bundled up in a blanket that is just as pink as her skin. Maybe even lighter. Soft flowers woven into it. Your parents will tell you it's your sister- of course, you know. You’re not dumb. You’re five. You’re big. You know. But you don’t say anything- you only nod. You stand speechless in front of a baby that has spent only a few minutes in the world and she has been the only person in your life up until now to render you speechless.
You decide that you don’t want a little brother after all like you asked God months ago because nothing can beat this little bundle.
You stand on your tip-toes and you kiss her cheeks and her head and her nose and her eyes and every bit of skin you can find. She doesn’t even stir- as if she’s known you forever. Familiar. She doesn’t even shift.
Your father picks her up and she cries. You glare at him. He says that’s what babies do. But she didn’t cry when I touched her. She never will.
You will remember all of this in vivid detail until you die. It was the singular most important day in your life.
You teach her how to walk. You pick her up and you drop her to the ground. She still loves you. She’ll always love you. When she doesn’t stop crying- not even your mother can help, you take her on your lap and she clings to your arm, falling asleep. Something about familiarity and forever is growing in your mind but your words aren’t strong enough to describe it yet. It’s okay. Just hold her tighter.
She’s loud and aggressive and violent. You’re soft and gentle and stay away from fights. It’s a good team. She likes pink and you like blue. You exchange pieces of candy. You give her the pink and she’ll give you the blue and she’ll kiss your face the way you kissed hers the first day you met her and you’ll think of the f-square again and hold her closer.
Your parents sit you down with her. We’ll die before you, they say, you’ll only have each other. Somehow, you both already knew.
You do fight — but you fight rarely. Even lesser since she got so sick that she might have died. You treat her like spun glass and she treats you like the center of her universe and you know you can never love anyone as much as her and vice versa.
You don’t know her friends’ names anymore. She doesn’t know all of yours. You live far away now. Her in your home and you in the boarding school a dozen cities away. She learns to write letters for you. She’s never known a life without you.
Her favourite flavour of ice-cream changed over the months. You didn’t know. You remember her waking up sick next you once — you tell her over the cups of ice-cream you consume — and you were so scared. She doesn’t remember.
What would she do if you died? You ask her that one day and without skipping a beat she says she would kill herself. You laugh and then seriously- severely tell her never to.
She tells you to write — why law? You know she wants to be a fashion designer and at least one of you needs a steady income. Plus, you love the money and the five-star hotels and the impulsive buys. She doesn’t get it.
You see little brothers of your friends and you slowly realise how different it is. You thank god for the thousandth time that he did not listen to you and give you a brother. You stand and eat a sandwich whilst watching Netflix so she does too now and sometimes, you’re terrified that she’s comparing herself to you — moulding herself differently.
You’re an awkward, fact filled, knowledge hungry and sleepy girl. She’s such a girlfriend girl. Always with glossed lips and neat hair and piercings. You smile at that sometimes. You’re opposites and sisters — entwined in your souls. It sounds like a cheap American movie without any of their fake angst. No one’s the victim or the villian. You’re both lovable and you know that because you love each other.
You never let her fall down, even if you hurt yourself. Every decision starts being driven by the thought of her. Your actions have consequences and you never want any to touch her. You want to hold her when you sleep, pinch her awake in the middle of a rant, force her to watch your favourite films and listen to your music artists. You’re older. You know better. She rolls her eyes.
You can’t take your anger out on anyone- it bubbles under your skin. You don’t feel comfortable letting it out with the others and but with her- there’s this safety net of no matter what. No matter what. You lose it. She cries. You cry. You apologize and she only smiles. You feel a hole in your chest for the next week.
You’re researching colleges. She doesn’t want you to leave so you tell her that you can never truly leave her. You have been with her since before she was born. Up until five years- all you’d done in life was to wait for her to exist. How could you leave?
Your mother tells you she loves you sickeningly, makes you promise to never hurt her. Your father mentions it at night. She loves you so much. It makes you angry- makes you want to shout. With your chest. All emotions. You love her more, more and always more.
You can hurt her terribly though. With scars so deep they might kill her before this world does. You have the power but you also have the power to mention her in your graduating speech and dedicate your first novel to her just so she knows that you’ve won this. That you love her more. Always have, always will and that there’s nothing she can do about it.
You think of all siblings and their property battles. You laugh with her at it. It’s funny how for a piece of land people can give up their built-in best friends. You can’t comprehend it. You look at her and think that if she ever does leave you- you might die before the world can kill you too.
The most important thing: Don’t ever outright say all of this. Just watch out for her. Make her laugh. Take her side. Hug her. Kiss her head. Dedicate it all to her. Save her the pink bits of candy. Give her your ice-cream but never the TV remote or aux. Take walks with her and hug her randomly and tell her about Formula One. In the quiet space between your bodies- no matter if it’s centimeters or airmiles- the ‘iloveyous’ will insert themselves. Call her. Call her. Don’t leave her. It’ll kill you both before the world can.
