I can’t remember what my sister’s perfume smelled like.
I can’t remember the way she smiled, for real and not in pictures. I can’t remember her mac-and-cheese, except that it used to be my favorite. I can’t remember her graduation, I can’t remember her prom night (but I do remember that’s the only school dance she went to), and I can’t remember her boyfriend’s name. We don’t even try to talk to him anymore.
I remember snippets, small things that don’t matter. Like how she always kept a bag of jelly beans in the glove box of her car, or the way we’d talk about school (my middle school, her senior year) when she’d braid my hair before bed, like Mom used to. I remember her helping me with my essays for Language Arts, her straightening Dad’s tie in the mornings, and smiling sadly because she had to do it in Mom’s place. Her dancing around the kitchen to the radio whenever she baked brownies, and grabbing my hands and insisting I dance, too. I remember her getting accepted to her second-choice college, and deciding to wait to go until she could pay for herself, rather than asking for money she couldn’t pay back.
But those memories are all I have left of her, besides a box of pictures and trinkets and other things I take out when I feel like crying. And they’re fading, fast. I don’t remember what songs we danced to, or which one was her favorite. I don’t remember what college it was, until I take out the box and look at the acceptance letter that has happy and sad tears sprinkled all over it. I don’t remember what essays she helped with, or whether I did my homework in the kitchen before dinner, or in the den while she did hers. I don’t remember the feeling of her fingers working through my hair. I don’t remember which flavors were her favorite.
I suppose I should be happy that I can remember anything of her at all. Mom died when I was six, too young to remember happy things, just legs dressed in black and hands patting my head sympathetically at the memorial. All I remember of her is a headstone.
Everyone says I won’t really forget, because I loved my sister and she loved me and she’ll always be with me, no matter what. But what they don’t know is that every minute I lose a little more of her. I used to be able to remember what her favorite flavor jelly bean was, or what songs we danced to in the kitchen. I used to hear those songs on the radio and start crying, because I missed her so much and I still remembered. Now, I don’t know if I’m hearing the right songs, and I don’t miss her so much anymore. And I’m scared that it means that I don’t love her anymore.
So I take the box of things I do remember out from behind my desk every night, and I look at it while I braid my own hair, just like my sister showed me. I hold the silver locket that isn’t worth very much but I never put around my neck anyway, because I might want to never take it off. I look at the pictures of my sister and the boyfriend I can’t remember, and I wish they would’ve gotten married one day. I read the acceptance letter, and I think about applying, just because.
And for the six minutes and twenty eight seconds it takes me to braid my hair, I try to love her as much as possible.
And for six minutes and twenty eight seconds, I can almost remember what her perfume smelled like.
I can’t remember the way she smiled, for real and not in pictures. I can’t remember her mac-and-cheese, except that it used to be my favorite. I can’t remember her graduation, I can’t remember her prom night (but I do remember that’s the only school dance she went to), and I can’t remember her boyfriend’s name. We don’t even try to talk to him anymore.
I remember snippets, small things that don’t matter. Like how she always kept a bag of jelly beans in the glove box of her car, or the way we’d talk about school (my middle school, her senior year) when she’d braid my hair before bed, like Mom used to. I remember her helping me with my essays for Language Arts, her straightening Dad’s tie in the mornings, and smiling sadly because she had to do it in Mom’s place. Her dancing around the kitchen to the radio whenever she baked brownies, and grabbing my hands and insisting I dance, too. I remember her getting accepted to her second-choice college, and deciding to wait to go until she could pay for herself, rather than asking for money she couldn’t pay back.
But those memories are all I have left of her, besides a box of pictures and trinkets and other things I take out when I feel like crying. And they’re fading, fast. I don’t remember what songs we danced to, or which one was her favorite. I don’t remember what college it was, until I take out the box and look at the acceptance letter that has happy and sad tears sprinkled all over it. I don’t remember what essays she helped with, or whether I did my homework in the kitchen before dinner, or in the den while she did hers. I don’t remember the feeling of her fingers working through my hair. I don’t remember which flavors were her favorite.
I suppose I should be happy that I can remember anything of her at all. Mom died when I was six, too young to remember happy things, just legs dressed in black and hands patting my head sympathetically at the memorial. All I remember of her is a headstone.
Everyone says I won’t really forget, because I loved my sister and she loved me and she’ll always be with me, no matter what. But what they don’t know is that every minute I lose a little more of her. I used to be able to remember what her favorite flavor jelly bean was, or what songs we danced to in the kitchen. I used to hear those songs on the radio and start crying, because I missed her so much and I still remembered. Now, I don’t know if I’m hearing the right songs, and I don’t miss her so much anymore. And I’m scared that it means that I don’t love her anymore.
So I take the box of things I do remember out from behind my desk every night, and I look at it while I braid my own hair, just like my sister showed me. I hold the silver locket that isn’t worth very much but I never put around my neck anyway, because I might want to never take it off. I look at the pictures of my sister and the boyfriend I can’t remember, and I wish they would’ve gotten married one day. I read the acceptance letter, and I think about applying, just because.
And for the six minutes and twenty eight seconds it takes me to braid my hair, I try to love her as much as possible.
And for six minutes and twenty eight seconds, I can almost remember what her perfume smelled like.
Author's Note: This is up on my dA account. It's not stolen, I promise.
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