My childhood was long, blissful, and full of sisters. I had two. When I was younger I couldn’t distinguish between the three of us: you hit one, we all cried, you gave one a gift, we all squealed. For my older sister’s 11th birthday she was given (we were given) an N64. It was the best present any of us would ever receive.
I rarely played. We would all get a snack and sit in front of the TV, watching as my big sister battled to save Zelda, zoomed across the manicured lawns of Luigi’s Raceway and shot blue, green and red bubbles in Bust-a-move. I was happiest being a spectator. In these moments she was the best and the brightest of us. She was my hero.
Our favourite game was Banjo Kazooie, a hapless brown bear pitted against a bright green witch. The game recorded the number of hours spent playing, representing something more than time. We were never more together than during these mammoth sessions, shut up in our playroom (since rebranded “the library,” though that hasn’t yet caught on).
Sometimes we play, still; the years slip away and I am ten again, back with my sisters, full of wonder and emptied of adulthood, breathlessly, bravely facing Gruntilda in the heart of her lair.