A Lifetime Ago

We were one and a half, and your parents had brought you halfway around the world for a visit. Your hair had yet to grow long enough to be straight; instead, you had a mop of blond curls that sat on top of your head like a bed of feathers. You stood with me at the play table, eager fingers brushing over every button and lever.

We were three, playing grownups at my brother's christening party. You were a proper little princess back then, and you looked like an angel with your hair all prettied up and a summer dress on. Whether you brought your own or my mum just happened to have a pair, there were two twin strollers and two baby dolls, and you walked next to me through the house tracking our imaginings through each and every room.

We were five, playing together in my sandpit. Your arms were white and waxy with the sunscreen, and the spade you held in your tight fist waved wildly in the air, sprinkling sand on our heads.

We were six, staying at Granma and Grandad's for our very first sleepover. Your hair was tousled, spread like foam across the pillow, your fingers curled into a fist, stretching out across the double bed towards me.

We were eight, playing doctors in your caravan. Your stuffed animals became our patients as we stood at the table, measuring out water in syringes and finding a cure for cancer. You tipped a cup of water down my neck, and laughed like a mad man.

We were ten, on our first trip without our parents, on the road to Canberra with our grandparents. You ate crisps by the bagful, and sang "Green Bottles" the whole way. We messed around with Grandad's Useful Box, creating exquisite perfumes or breakthrough cures from water and shampoo and food dye. One night Granma kicked you out of the bedroom because we were fighting, and you slept on the couch.

We were eleven, and it was my first time skiing. You were a lot better at it than I was. In the afternoon, we built forts, and you pelted me with snowballs. Mine would never stay together properly.

We were thirteen, thinking ourselves so grown up. Fights were a thing of the past, we went shopping together, and you spent all your time on the computer. We rode in a stretch limo to the airport, and you sat there and waved like a proper princess. The little girls in the car next to us stared, and waved back, and you smiled like the sun.

We were fourteen, and I was at your house for a sleepover. You saw through my mask at once, and you held me, all day, and all night. It was the first time I'd shown someone how I was feeling, and you were there for me. I would give you massages, and you let me take my frustration out on your back.

We were fifteen, and I finally told you the truth. Your brown eyes stared at me through the darkness of the bedroom, and I could feel the pity and concern in them. You held me that night, hugged me and held me tight, and I cried in your arms.

We were sixteen, a far cry from the little kids we once were. You were my very best friend, the sister I could tell anything. Beyond the old tourist things and kiddie games, we went shopping, playing board games and hanging on the internet. You were talking of moving out, and driver's licences, and things I didn't want to think about, but I respected you for your maturity. When I left, you promised you'd tell me how your lessons went. You promised to email, and blew me a kiss.

I am seventeen, and I haven't heard from you in eight months, not since I left after that last, magical summer. Even when I came home and walked straight into a state of emergency, even when my mum was calling Granma twice a day with updates on how we were surviving, you didn't ask to talk to me.

You didn't tell me how your driving lessons went. You didn't ask me how school was going. You didn't beg for photos of my formal. You didn't show me photos of your ball. You didn't comment on my poems. You didn't ask me over on the holidays. You didn't send an email in reply to my postcard.

You didn't come over to visit with your mother and siblings the day before my birthday. You didn't give me a present. You didn't make me a card the way you had for the past four years. You didn't sign your name, your name wasn't even first; it was third, behind your six year old sister and your mum.

You didn't call.

We were sisters.
We were something.
You were my everything.
We are nothing.