Growing up I
always wanted an
older sibling,
instead of being the older sibling.
Most days I wanted an
older sister.
I wanted an older
sister who's closet
I could raid when she left
it unattended.
One who would
drive me around as
the radio blared
and we sang along
out of tune but not caring.
I wanted an older sister
who shared secrets and
stayed up with me.
She would show me the
best way to make
coffee and hot chocolate.
Growing up, I found
that I didn't need an
older sibling when my
cousins already played that
role for me.
Clothes that they
no longer wanted were fair game.
Hot chocolates with a
hint of cinnamon at Christmas
became coffees with enough creamer
to turn the dark liquid
a cloudy white.
The mugs always
turning my fingers pink,
curled up on the couches
in the basement with
Christmas songs playing
but our laughter drowning out
the lyrics.
Running around in
the yard, grass stains and
dirt on white t-shirts.
Our moms shaking their heads
at us in the kitchen,
but hiding their laughter until
we turned the corner.
At the mention of
my first breakup.
We went from laughing
on the couch to
me holding the guys back
and my sister running
off with my phone.
I became my own older sister.
Huddled around the
kitchen counter,
teaching my siblings how
to make hot chocolate.
Playing soccer and baseball
in the yard.
Driving around with the
windows down and the
music up,
signing out of tune,
smiling, and
not caring.