Age is an item. Perhaps not one we can touch or hold or see or taste. It is an item- an object that produces jealousy, an object that creates ranking among human beings. Age and time. Things we have been given and we have earned.
       My twin sister Elizabeth was given seniority over me by eight minutes and forty three seconds. To hole up in a flesh bunker for nine entire months, mashed in with my fetile sibling, only to see sunlight nearly nine minutes later. Why exactly was she first? She was always more pushy than me- perhaps this was imbedded in her before we left the womb? She was the lucky one, mother drank while we were still developing. Elizabeth got out of that alcohol infested crevice before I did, I envied her for that, I was jealous, even as a child, although I didn’t yet realize it.

       She was a pretty little girl, long black hair that would naturally form little ringlets that framed her circular face. She had dimples on her round cheeks, they would tint red when she blushed and clash with her green eyes. If she was still alive she would be gorgeous now, almost nineteen. I would likely be in love with her, even more so than when we were children.
       I remember her face well, but likely not as clearly as I remember her laugh. She would laugh when we would play together in the backyard. When we were finished playing, mother would call us inside from the back porch and draw us a bath. They would always bathe us together, I’m not certain why, it was likely for convenience.
       One day in the summer, August 23rd to be precise, my mother called us in after play. Elizabeth and I had been playing below the giant willow tree back behind our house. My father had built us a tree house in that tree, it rose up on stilts, I would sleep in it and cry when I got a little older. I remember we had an argument earlier that day about swinging. It was decided that the oldest got to go first. I was upset by this decision, things were decided this way too often.
       We went inside. Mother put us in the bathtub and wandered off, likely to find a bottle. Father wasn’t home, he was working, he always worked. We were bathing and playing. We decided to see who could hold their breath the longest. She went first, face first into the bath water. I vaguely remember how long she stayed under, I was shaking. I watched Elizabeth and soon she began to pull her head up and catch her breath.
       I do not remember why or what over came me. My hand soon rested on the back of her head, on her black hair. I pushed her head deeper into the bathtub, I held her there, under the water. She soon began to panic, realizing that I wasn’t simply playing. She splashed slightly but the bathtub was too small for much movement. My eyes were wide, my hand continued to hold her under. She convulsed, bubbles reached the surface of the water. I wanted her to stop moving. And she soon did. The surface of the water soon calmed, my hand still rested on her head. It was a beautiful sight but so sorrowful.
       I do not remember what happened next.
       They didn’t let me see the casket or attend the funeral. We never spoke of her again.