Flipping through ancient laminated pages, I wonder
about the sound of her voice
and the shape of her nose,
if her laugh would echo our mother's
or if we'd have prayed for similar things.
Perhaps my brother would have preferred her,
nine fingers and all, blue eyes wide as a full moon,
alight with expectation.
She might have had more words to say,
or the means to say them.
Like my sister, she could have danced,
floated across the floor like my fingers on the keys.
For every one of the novels in boxes under my bed,
or the hollow trophies lining the bookcases,
instead there might have been photographs of friends,
memories of a first date, a more sacred first kiss.
Regardless, no one can know anything except that

my name belonged to her first.