It still feels weird that she’s here. When she was little I dreamed of the day that we’d be independent, she’d get the train to visit my flat in London. And this morning I leave her in my bed, leaning on the door frame as I list breakfast options, my keys jangling, I strut out to my meeting. Feels like we’re still playing a game. I’m the big sister.
Except Hedy is already stronger than me in so many ways. She’s never been without her fire. Mum said she was born with her eyes open, her fists out.
But now it’s different; it’s matured into burning passion, and determination. She sits, knees up in her patterned playsuit, her curly black hair in a messy ponytail, round glasses resting on her nose, sketching on my iPad. “Draw me,” I say playfully, knowing she’d roll her eyes at the number one stereotypical question she gets asked, as an artist. But then she sits up. “Stand up straight,” she orders. She works, looks up. “Extend your arm like this.” She looks down, up, down, frowning. She finished, sneering at it. She could do better; it was only done in a minute or two. I turned it around, and saw my sister’s future.
I worry about her. Of course the comments of comparison affect her. Every young fan of mine reaching out to her to get to me, defining her as nothing but a tool, an extension of me. It hurts me, I feel guilty for it. I should say something. But every time I see her talent, I’m not worried.
She‘s fucking magnificent, and her work will speak louder than my words.