Blue flowery duvets and flannel sheets. Once we argued over who got to be Violet Baudelaire and didn’t speak to each other for an eternity, or five minutes – they were the same thing back then. Blisters on hands, faces painted like queens, cut legs from hiding in the flax. “We started that game, it’s ours.” Always ours, never mine. Sharing families, secrets and pillows. There is no shame in being angry, being sad, it is okay to be alive and to fight for what you want. Mostly we wanted us. Time’s irreversible. After so many years she is my blood.