Someone said as I walked past them. It wasn't true; we only shared our slant wrinkles - they rose across our foreheads like angry sergeant-major stripes and our love of gin. My sister, on the other hand, was the spit of her dark blue winter eyes, lips like a guppy from too much filler, and a long sharp nose that could smell anybody's bull shit. Like my mother, Jojo was beautiful, whereas on my good days, I'd been described as handsome, which, unless you are a man, is a label usually used to describe a prize cow or a pumpkin. But she wasn't here, so I didn't have to suffer the unfavorable comparison with my only sibling. Since the time Jojo could walk, I'd suffered her presence like a blister from an ill-fitting shoe. It suffices to say I didn't miss her, and I was rather enjoying the look of confusion on the faces of the people who enquired after her when I said she couldn't make it. Of course, I never told them the reason - that Jojo was heavily pregnant so that she couldn't fly.
Later, after the toasts and tears, another person told me I had my mother's smile as if I'd taken a putty knife, lifted her turned-up lips like old wallpaper, and pasted them on my face. It was an odd thing to say, as I didn't know the greying gentleman, so how on earth would he know? It's not like I'd been smiling during my mother's funeral.
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