The Last Time I Saw Her Smile

The last time I saw her smile, I didn’t know it would be the last.

That’s the thing about memories—they don’t announce themselves as important until they’re all you have left.

It was a Sunday afternoon. Late spring. The kind of day where the sun gently warms your skin but doesn’t burn. We sat on the back porch of our childhood home, iced tea in hand, listening to wind chimes and pretending that time wasn’t moving forward.

Her name was Maya. My little sister by three years. Fierce. Wild-hearted. The kind of girl who laughed too loudly in libraries and danced barefoot in grocery store aisles just to make people smile.

She was 24, with a camera always slung over her shoulder and plans that never quite stayed in lines. She wanted to photograph the world. Said she didn’t believe in staying in one place too long. “Stagnant water stinks,” she used to say with a grin. That Sunday, she told me about a trip she was planning. Southeast Asia. Three months. She spoke fast, excited, waving her hands the way she did when she was really dreaming.

I half-listened. I wish I’d listened more.

I remember her pausing, mid-sentence, to point at a cloud that looked like a rabbit. I rolled my eyes. She laughed at me. That laugh—it rang through the trees.

She said, “You’re always too serious. One day, you’ll miss silly things like this.”

I just shook my head.

She leaned her head on my shoulder and sighed. “Promise me something,” she said. “Don’t wait too long to live the life you actually want. Not the one everyone expects from you.”

I promised. Casually. Like we had all the time in the world.

Three days later, I got the call.

A drunk driver. Wrong lane. Early morning.

They said she didn’t feel pain. That it was quick.

I never got to say goodbye. I never got to tell her how much I admired her freedom, how her chaos brought balance to my order, how proud I was to be her big brother—even when I didn’t always understand her.

The funeral was a blur. I spoke, but I don’t remember the words. I just remember the photo we used—a candid of her laughing in the rain, soaked, glowing, alive.

That’s the smile I keep seeing. The last one. On the porch. The one I didn’t know to hold onto.

Grief is strange. It’s not just the crying. It’s the silence that follows. It’s reaching for your phone to send her a meme and remembering she’s not there. It’s hearing a song she loved and feeling like the air’s been knocked out of you.

But more than anything, it’s regret.

Not the kind that screams—but the quiet kind that whispers, “You should’ve hugged her longer.”

She had a way of reminding people to be present. To chase wonder. To take the long way home just for the view.

After she passed, I found a folder on her laptop called “Things I’ll Do Someday.” It was full of pictures she hadn’t posted, journal entries, voice notes, and letters—some to herself, some to people she never sent.

One was for me.

She wrote:

"You’ve always protected me. Thank you. But I hope one day you let go of the weight you carry and protect yourself too. I see how tired you are behind your eyes. Please live wildly, just once—for me."

I’ve read that letter a hundred times.

Last month, I booked a one-way ticket to Thailand. I packed her camera. I’m not a photographer, but I figured I could try to see the world through her lens.On my first day there, I climbed a hill overlooking the ocean. The wind was sharp. The sky was on fire with color. I sat down, took a deep breath, and for the first time in a long while, I smiled without it hurting.

Because in that moment, I could hear her laugh.

And I finally understood what she meant.

We don’t always get to choose when someone leaves. But we do get to choose what we do with the love they left behind.

And sometimes, that love is enough to keep you going.

Moral of the Story:

Some goodbyes come without warning. Don’t wait to say the things that matter. Cherish the small moments. And when someone you love becomes a memory—honor them by truly living.