Sometimes I feel incomplete. Often, it feels like a big chunk of my world broke off and floated away to make its own peaceful, quiet place. But now there are two unfinished pieces floating around in space, searching for the other in vain. There is no turning back now.
Exactly six months ago, my twin sister died. She is the missing piece of my world. We were closer than anyone else ever even came close to. I loved her so much and I didn’t find how much I really did love her until she was gone.
My family and I are driving to Rock Hill Cemetery, where my sister rests. We go every month on the day she died—the ninth. I’m sitting in the back, observing the faces of my family. In the seat to my right, my brother Samuel looks down at his lap and twirls his thumbs sadly. In the passenger’s seat, my mother sets her jaw like she’s trying to be strong. But the crystal ball rolling down the hills of her cheek doesn’t escape my attention. Through the rearview mirror, I can see my dad’s sorrowful gray eyes fixed blindly on the road ahead. I turn to the window I’m sitting in, and look at my reflection. Sad, puffy eyes stare back at me, her pupils islands lost in a sea of hopelessness. I press my hand on the arctic ice of a window, and another milky, transparent hand touching my frosty fingers.
I miss you.
The car turns and the light moves, taking my reflection with it.
Goodbye.
I wonder if she has forgotten me. She probably has too much fun in heaven to pay any attention to what’s going on down on Earth. I wonder if she still helps others like she helped me, distraught souls that are confused and sad. I wonder if she’s troubled too, like them, or if she’s living her new life in blissful ignorance. Why did God have to take her away from me? Would He let her forget about me?
I focus outside, where the sun makes the powdery snow sparkle brighter than any precious stone. The pine trees droop under the wait of the snow, mourning. Children play in the snow, ruddy-cheeked and laughing. They didn’t know that the saddest girl in the world was passing them at that very moment.
Tears burn my eyes. The scene outside has changed—rows of lifeless slabs of stones darting past. They seem so cruel and heartless. They are gray and cold like the weather.
The car stops. I grab the flowers perched in the middle seat and step out. My boots sink into the soft snow, swallowing my foot whole. We all trudge slowly past graves. Some have large crosses on the top; others are just curved stone. Some have beautiful, smiling angels. But their smiles are bitter and apathetic. I see her tombstone immediately. It is smaller and simpler than all the ones around her. How she deserved so much more than all the rest of these dead people.
CAMERON BAILEY
1995-2007
I set the bouquet of her favorite flowers next to her gravestone. A gust of wind blows a tattered, yellow paper at my feet. A small voice in my heart told me that this paper was very important. I slowly bent down, my family staring at me curiously. I smoothed it out a little on my knee,held it up and read it in my head.
To love is to not forget. You will never be forgotten by those whom loved you.
God would never let her forget me.
Just one little comment is that you could try to embed the italized part more into the story, to make it clearer what it is.
