“I wish you would come in to see your sister. She needs you. I’m sure if you came to visit, her health would improve. She’s not doing well, and we fear the worst. ”
“She needs you.”… Even if I came, what good would it do? I am not even her mother, only a distracted sister who was never there when it counted, and you think my presence will make her feel better? After all I have and haven’t done?
And when there is time to stop, to consider, to speak, what will I say? I will have nothing within myself to change the events or soften the blow or take away some of the pain. I will become engulfed with all I did or did not do with what should have been and what could not have been helped. I will be helpless.
She was a beautiful human being. She loved anything that lived, that moved, that breathed. She was light. She laughed and loved to make people laugh. She would run around the house as fast as her legs would carry her, singing on top of her lungs the song she had composed with silly lyrics to go with a foolish dance she dreamt up. She lived to feel—to feel joy, to feel sadness, to feel love.
I needed her. As a teenager going through difficult transitions, I needed all the joy and love I could get. I had only one friend—you—and even you did not understand my pain at that time, though you tried. She would wake me up in the morning, dragging me out of bed with just her shining words and contagious grin.
Why do I put that first? I do not even know if it matters, or if it explains anything.
The biting November breeze sweeps through the knitting of my sweater and I shiver as the wind’s icy fingers run through my tangled hair. You stand near me, supporting me with your presence and rare solemnity. There is no more questioning, only silence and patience, waiting for an answer.
She was perfect. As she grew older this didn’t change. Her features were like our parents: round, soft, blonde and pale. She was most beautiful in the mornings, when she looked like our mother, especially when she wore dad’s old, grey sweater. She seemed as a sleepy forest spirit. Misty and distant. These were some of the only moments she was calm and silent. Every other occasion she was loud, friendly to everyone and oh so exciting. By elementary school she had countless friends. They called at every opportunity, asking for play dates and movie nights and sleep overs. “Mimosa is a model student.” Her teachers used to brag. “She has perfect attendance, straight A’s and she participates exceptionally in class.”
I was a failure. I looked nothing like my parents, with dark hair and sharp features. When I got up in the mornings I was like a bear after a long cold winter of hibernation—angry and unapproachable. I had no friends besides you. We made an odd pair, and though they may never admit it, even my parents worried about me. “If only she was more like her little sister.” I heard people say, when they thought I couldn’t hear. “She just doesn’t try.” That was a lie. I tried. I tried very hard but I could never compare to Mimm.
My sister was everything I wasn’t. Smart and funny and friendly, and I could never compare. I was jealous—I see that now—but at the time too proud to admit it. Outdone by my own little sister.
The tree trunk feels like iron as it digs into my spine. I watch numbly as a leaf flutters helplessly to the ground. Our breath clouds, filling the silence. You wait for me. I'm not ready yet. I don't know if I ever will be. And when I am, will it be too late again?
Then suddenly her closest friends moved away or moved on or they argued and she was alone, just a year ago.
I had just turned sixteen when you introduced me to Marth and Violet and Zagum. We five became close friends and all of a sudden I had something she didn’t. I’ll never understand why she still looked up to me, why she followed me around, why she begged to come along. There wasn’t much to admire. I left her behind. When we began our trip up North she asked to come along, but I saw this only as her way of stealing the few friends I had. I told her to find her own friends.
"I don't have any."
"Then go do what you're good at: make more."
So she did. She found a group. A new group. An exciting group. A reckless group.
When we returned, I knew what she had done, and I knew the danger but I didn't stop her. The alternate option was out of the question. I was too selfish, unwilling to share what little I had.
I didn't tell my mum. I told myself she was too busy, too stressed with her new job, trying to support us when money was low and dad had no work, but really it was because I knew what she would have said. I couldn't stand to hear it. It was the same thing that the little voice inside my head was telling me, over and over and over. By the time our mum realized something was wrong, it was already too late. Mimm had taken the dare. That stupid, horrible dare. I know why she did it. In the way I admire you, she admired them. If we are similar in only one way than it is by this: the humanly desire to please.
Then all of a sudden the shining, bouncing girl was lying on her back in a shadowed room, where instead of music there was the monotonous beating of her heart. I feared it would slow. I feared it would stop.
I feared I would be the one to make it stop.
I will never come in to say: She was my favourite. She was light and love and air. I needed her and she was there. She was perfect. I was not. She had everything she wanted and I was jealous. Then her friends left her. She needed me but I wasn't there. When told to find her own way she did it in the only way she could. She joined daredevils and idiots because the rush of adrenaline made her feel. I stood and watched, unwilling to make sacrifices to save my own sister. We hid the facts from our mother, so she mustn't be blamed. There was a dare. A dreadfully stupid dare and she took it because she felt she had no other choice. There was a choice. There was a simple choice between black and white and I chose the wrong one. It's too late to turn back now.
The maple's branches sway back and forth, send leaves fluttering, tossed and turned by the wind, then resting in the grass to be covered in snow. She and I are like that leaf, waiting in the cold, wondering if spring will come before it's too late.
~*~
This is a narrative writing exercise I had to do for my English class, Modelling Tillie Olsen's "I Stand Here Ironing," as well as my 'Howl of the Silver Moon' characters. I must admit I'm rather proud of this piece, especially since I got a mark of 100%. I want to thank my friends for helping me while writing, with your critiques and suggestions. ;) Lemme know what you think!
