For Elise

My sister Elise calls me her guardian angel.
Father, called me a tumor. He left when we were 4.
Mother didn’t say much of anything about the withered midget on her daughter’s back.
Elise and I don’t just share a liver and kidneys – we share absolutely everything. No secrets between us, although she sometimes jokes “What are you plotting behind my back?”
The doctors whisper over headphones that there’s risk, but not as much if they don’t have to worry about me.
“Mother didn’t,” I say. “Why should I?”
I promise she won’t wake up alone. I’m her angel.