2. Sister | I'm writing a poetry collection

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In another life, I have a sister.
She looks like me but with Dad’s nose
and Mum’s pale green eyes.
Her face is angular and symmetrical.
There’s a natural curl to her chocolate-brown hair and
she always looks fresh. Plump cheeks blushed by the sun.
She is blessed with clear skin, unlike her sister.
As she grows, she becomes smarter and funnier than me.
I’m older than her. Eight years older.
She is a surprise, unlike her sister.
A change of life baby. I suspect she’s the favourite.
I hold Mum’s hand on her first day of school
and say, ‘Don’t cry. I’ll look after her.’ And I do.
I show her how to French-plait her hair.
I sneak her into the house and hold her hair back
when she throws up her first taste of alcohol.
I cradle her just above the ground when her
childhood sweetheart cheats on her.
Of course, we fight. All sisters do.
When she starts stealing my bras and skinny jeans,
when she shouts at Mum and makes her cry,
when I say she can’t hang around with me and
my friends anymore.
But in our twenties, when raging hormones,
cheap lip gloss and viciousness leave us,
we become friends – best friends.
For two years, we live together in a damp and drafty little flat
(which we love more than anything). We stand in the overgrown
back garden, smoking cigarettes and talking about work, boys,
films, politics, poems, gigs, capitalism and weekend plans.
We become a two. My friends are her friends.
Her friends are my friends.
We’re joint at the hip like Mum always wanted.
We live like this until I get engaged.
And my husband sees her as his little sister too.
We go on road trips together, us three.
She buys us crisps and full-fat fizzy juice
from petrol stations to say sorry for not
offering us petrol money.
In another life, I have a sister
and she’s so much more than that.
And in this life, I’m nostalgic for her,
this sister I never had.