My Cardboard Balcony

Kin by Belinda Roddie I never got a younger sister, but if I did, she'd have your eyes. She'd wear her hair as short and bright as a blade. Her leather jackets would be off the chain. I never got a younger sister - two girls born just eight minutes apart were more than enough for my parents' arms. They cradled the sleeping bundles with the gentleness of angels. We were tucked away like seeds in cushioned pots, with pillows to support our growing stems, while we waited to sprout into loud and obnoxiously dramatic flowers of poetic justice! But if I had gotten a younger sister, she'd have your smile, as wicked and mischievous as a sorceress with her nose inches away from the scalding mouth of a cauldron. She'd be the one to fight off the bullies from our siblings and me, not the other way around. She'd cast spells with just her words, and if the jinxes didn't work, she'd use her fists instead. She'd leave holes in steel witho

I wasn't used to this feeling. I wasn't used to how much it stung, how much it cramped, how much it burned and throbbed and ached. It was as if I had been stabbed, scraped, electrocuted, shot, all at the same time - all while dealing with the fatigue of a marathon. If this was heartache, I wanted no part of it. If this was heartache, then I wanted to cut out my own heart with a dirty knife and peddle it to some other sap who wanted it more.