By Alison Woodhouse
When we were ten, I nicked my thumb on a knife. A drop of red decorated the perfectly divided egg we ate for breakfast. You ran cold water and held my hand beneath. It was paper cut pain but I cried.
Tomorrow the surgeon will lay open your breast. Her hand will not shake as she lifts the scalpel, runs it along the ink line.
You took your half of the egg, took my bead of blood and popped it in your mouth. Twins share everything, you said and I smiled, pleased.