The Older Sister.

A photograph, yellowed and faded, softened with age, inexpertly repaired, with fragments missing from the edges.
I am the older one – Elżbieta Maria. I stand next to my baby sister’s carriage. A smudge over my neck blots out a part of me. Or is it a fancy scarf tied in a bow? It is hard to tell, the shape is indistinct and blurred. You can’t see my hands, but I am not holding anything – no teddy, no dolly. You can’t see my feet. I am just a round face with round cheeks, in a round woolen hat tied under my chin, indistinct bangs over my forehead and scrunched up eyebrows.
You think that I am about three years old; my sister’s age places us in the winter of 41’ – 42’ and you know my date of birth: November 11, 1938. I am the first child of Piotr and Zofia. You also know that I died as a young child from meningitis, but you have not found my date of death or my grave; you are not even sure where I died.
I am imprisoned in this sixty-five year old piece of cardboard.
Let me out. Tell my story.