The Sister Who Never Was

Sitting in my room, I go through your belongings, which match many of mine from the early days, when everything was good and filled with hope.

I smile as I hold up our matching stuffed frogs, mine purple, yours green. Just like everything Mom bought for both of us.

How cute, feeling the lump in my throat.

I hold them tight, trying my hardest to remember you. It’s like trying to fist water into your hand. Yet branded into my soul.

***

Standing in the hallway, I study our early photos. Damn, we looked almost like twins as babies, despite our age gap. I could test someone, and they might not know who was who.

Then I move to the toddler photos. That’s where we diverge. I look like Mom, and you look like Grandma. You look happy and I’m all proper.

I see more of my pictures of me growing up, then I wander back to yours. So few moments of you compared to me. Making yours all the more precious.

***

Cold air nips at my cheeks as I walk through the frostbitten grass in search of your spot. I hold some balloons and a stuffed bear. I think you would like that.

So much loss here as I make my way to your corner. One you share with our cousin.

When I find your spot, I shake my head. What a mess. Why wouldn’t the groundskeeper want to take better care of you? All of you.

You deserve it.

We deserve it.

I go to work, removing the leaves and dirt, using the sleeve of my coat to wipe it clean.

When I’m satisfied, I place the bear and balloons on your spot, the balloons flowing with the wind.

Then, placing the blanket I also brought onto the ground, I sit next to you and start sharing everything that has happened to me over the last year.

In these rare moments, do I feel close to you. Almost like you are sitting next to me. Almost like we are siblings.

Only when the chill penetrates my bones do I decide to stand and depart, blowing you a kiss as I walk away.

Happy birthday, sis.

***

Fireworks decorate the sky in beautiful patterns and colors as the country celebrates its independence.

But not us.

We sit at home, watching movies and thinking of you, our hearts heavy. This is the day we lost you.

Mom keeps quiet, having nothing to say as she works on her cross-stitch.

I don’t blame her. What was there to say?

***

I stand outside the house with my suitcases and backpack, waiting for the Uber that will take me to the airport.

To my new life.

My new family.

Mom is angry at me that I’m doing this, telling me how I’m an asshole daughter and that she’s losing me, like how she lost you.

That’s a slap in the face.

How dare she use you in that way?!

I keep my mouth shut, not wanting to pull you further into this fight. You don’t deserve to be used that way.

Luckily, the Uber pulls up, and I’m able to leave before I do something I regret.

***

Sitting at my desk with my laptop, I begin writing stories about you. Not memory-based ones, as I have so few, but ones that encapsulate the way I feel about you and the space you left in my heart.

Sometimes, they draw up emotions so deep I can’t stop the water running down my face, my eyes blurry as I type out the words.

When they are finished, a weight is lifted off me, and I can breathe as I hit Publish, hoping to help others who are feeling this way.