The Impression of Light

Penny leaned on the doorframe, assessing the room. Lira had a way of bringing the forest green walls of her room to life, like flowers blooming for the sun. Since she’d been gone, the walls sulked in their intended darkness. That was Penny’s favourite thing about her sister. Lira had this power; she could revive anything with a smile or find that which lingered in the dark and coax it back to the light again. It was as if Lira sucked up all the darkness so that light could exist. Penny had a different kind of power, one that relied mostly mostly on disrupting natural order. She was the darkness and Lira seemed to be the only anchor in her storm of chaos.

Penny noticed the sun, and all she thought about was how Lira loved those kind of days. Days where feathery clouds swayed across the baby blue sky. Penny’s heart cried, it had been betrayed by the universe, because it too should’ve been in mourning. It should’ve been greiving. Momentarily, the sky darkened, and Penny had sworn she saw Lira sitting by the window, watching the rain fall in time with the stream of clouds sauntering by. But the glare of the sun interrupted the image and Lira evaporated with the rain.

Penny moved from the door frame, reaching for the dark wooden music box. She’d gotten the music box one Christmas from her aunt, but when Lira saw it, her eyes lit in fascination. That night Penny had snuck across the hall to her sister’s room and gently sat the music box on the corner of Lira’s desk. For years and years that’s where it stayed. The clasp was worn from years of Lira forcing the lid opened and closed. The slight Ballerina spun in slow circles. Lira used to spin in time with the Ballerina until she was tired enough to close the box and save the dance for another day. Now the Ballerina’s dance caught on the cogs, disobeying the fragile rhythm as it stirred on. It was as if the Ballerina knew that her dance partner was gone.

Lira’s bed had been made neatly, which is how Penny knew her sister was really gone. Lira would never lay her head on her pale pillows again; instead she was confined to a casket where she’d rest until whatever end came after the end. It was hard to imagine Lira in a casket, quiet. Rarely was her bed used for rest. It was dedicated to nights of sharing secrets and days of jumping to her favourite songs, rousing the blankets and sheets from their axis.

Without Lira the room was more like a cell than a home. She had a lamp decorated in muted beads that hung lazily from the cliff of the lamp’s sepia cloth. The lamp stood lonely on her desk, still lit. Penny didn’t notice it until she realized it had no reason to be on. Lira was supposed to last forever. But, like the hourglass by her bed, Lira’s seconds sank to the bottom until there was nothing left at the top. Fiddling with the string, Penny took a final breath before turning the light off one last time.