Brother, Will You Play With Me? A Letter To You

Will you ask me to play with you again? Through gritted teeth I tell you to go away, I’m sorry I’m your older sister. 
Your fingers wrap around mine as I lead you towards your kindergarten classroom. I had made sure we had gotten buttered cinnamon toast and chocolate milk in the school cafeteria before your morning homeroom. This was before I knew you were lactose intolerant. But we continued this even after I knew you were lactose intolerant, just with a little bathroom trip added to our school mornings. 
I drop your hand when any of my fourth-grade peers walk by. I quiet you when you adorn me, ‘sissy.’ I am sorry I’m your older sister. 
I dress up as an elf for your December birthday. The Santa in our living room smelled like cigarette smoke and was eating too many of those peanut thumbprints Gram made for your classmates. But he was the best Craigslist had. My mother made me a skirt of red and green toile, along with my two friends. We scoffed and laughed at your Christmas party. I told your classmates that Santa wasn’t real. I’m sorry I’m your sister.
Every day when I get home from school, I draw my friends with colored pencils on cardstock. I hang these on my door. You draw yourself among my friends with a Sharpie while I sleep. 
“Sissy, play with me.” You plead. 
I rip off your Sharpied self and throw it away. 
“Brady, I hate you.” 
I’m sorry I’m your sister. 
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I stand outside the bathroom door as you take a piss test. The door opens, my mother’s face wrinkled, she forces a thin smile on her tired lips. I smile at you. You push me to the side and hand our mother the cup of piss. 
I hug you, you stand, not embracing me. Your arms are straight, your head tall, and scoffing as I squeeze you, trying to push on the idea of life inside of you. 
All the pill bottles have been removed from our house, I can’t even get an ibuprofen for the ache that sits in the crook of my chest, in front of my lungs, next to my heart. Neverseasing, neverending ice. 
To you, I don’t exist. 
Even the rare moments, when I asked you to spend time with me and you agreed. You were high. You weren’t there. 
You drove me around, speeding, gracing one hundred. You weren’t there. 
You were angry with me when I wouldn’t get you a stash. 
I’m sorry I’m your sister. 
Brother, let’s pretend it's early morning, your hand in mine, cheeks flushed and mouth chapped from outside our winter health. Cinnamon butter toast and chocolate milk, when we leave the cafeteria I won’t drop your hand. I will never drop your hand again. 
Please play with me.