All the way home on the train after my sister dinner, I think about meringues and writing.
The huge pink tipped cloud meringue we shared, passing it between us, wasn't nearly as good as the ones we grew up on, perfect every time from our queen of meringues mother.
We talked about writing: how it suits me and not my sister, like a colour we can't both wear; how it is my element, belonging to me, like meringues belong to our mum.
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