I don’t remember much about you. Which is wrong, because as cousins, we should be close. If asked, I wouldn’t be able to remember your eye color, or describe the kind of clothes you wear. My memories of you are few and faint, but I know that even as a little kid I looked up to you. Why wouldn’t I? I grew up with two younger sisters, and having an older cousin to confide in was just as amazing as having an older sister.

Now, as I think of you I strain to remember anything from the past. Currently, you’d have already graduated from college. Do you have a job, a boyfriend?
Do you ever ask about your younger cousin that you’ve seemed to have forgotten.

It almost brings me to tears to think about how close we could have been.
Maybe you would’ve liked my poetry.
Maybe you would’ve watched the history channel with me when all of my friends wouldn't because they thought it was geeky.

What if we could’ve been best friends, but aren’t because of the cruel sentence of solitary confinement passed by family long ago.

Sometimes I really miss you, even though I’ve only met you twice. Sometimes when I need a big sister (or older cousin) to talk to I write you letters about the things I’ll never get to ask you.
Do you like to read?
Do you listen to 80’s music like me?
Do you think it’s right that I’ll never be able to send this letter because of a family feud that I have nothing to do with?
I’ve always wanted to know you. But when I ask about you my questions are dismissed. They say its for the best, but I know if you read this letter you wouldn’t throw it away.
I think you would read it, thinking about your little cousin, who, thirteen years later, still writes you letters, and thinks of you as an older sister.