I don't remember not having a sister. Despite being three years older than her, I struggle to remember a time when Jules wasn't in a photograph, a home video, or a memory. We did the silliest things together, but laughed our way through them, her giggle imitating the sound of a bell. Flashbacks of me reading her a story on our old, worn out couch, her eyes illuminating with each word spoken, and glimpses of her first birthday party, smiling wide while we played with a baby pink balloon, raced before my eyes.
I don't remember her going anywhere without me. I was her protector, her greatest heroine, while she was my loyal companion. We danced around the house together, our fingers interlocked, until one of us tripped over the other's toes, and we both came tumbling downward, the bells of our happiness chiming. When the radiant sun came peering through my window each morning, I would sprint into the room and gaze at her, large hazel eyes, mesmerized. We were inseparable.
However, for three whole years, I didn't have a sister, a playmate, a dance partner, or a best friend. It is painstaking to even imagine a time when I woke up only to find a vacant room, with no sibling in it to fill it with a purpose. How could I have laughed on my own, cried on my own, or found joy in my life with solitude constantly encircling me?
I could focus on the parts of my childhood I cannot recall, but as of right now, I think I will choose to remember.