When my phone screen reads 2:30 a.m., I know I won’t sleep at all. I wander, wading my way through piles of clothes, discarded markers, and half-empty boxes, to the mirror attached to the closet door.
I stand really close, my nose almost touching its reflected version. I wave to the other me, and she waves back.
My nose brushes against the cold glass. I realize that a blanket has followed me from the bed and rests on me like a cape.
My eyes move downward to my bare feet. A small blue bunny catches my gaze: my sister’s favorite stuffed animal. My parents say that my sister was born right on this very floor. The room holds so many memories. Like the time I fell out of my crib when I was barely two years old, leaving my sister, just five years older, panicking in her own bed. Later she was able to laugh about it, telling me it was the first time she realized just how much she loved me. Now her high school textbooks are stacked haphazardly in that same corner, dusty and forgotten.
When we got older, there were late-night whispers about friend betrayals and annoying teachers. Worries for the future. Conversations packed full to bursting. There was sitting on the bed, holding each other like anchors, as doors slammed and accusations were thrown. The windy times, we called them.
Lola is in her senior year of high school and unsure of what she wants to do in life. Her dream is to become a veterinarian, but all her friends are taking a gap year to explore the world. Dad will hear none of it, and Mom wants Lola to be happy, so they yell about what they think their daughter should do.
“I’m sorry about all this,” Lola whispers in my ear, lips wet with tears. We are sitting on my bed, huddled together. Our parents are the loudest they’ve ever been.
I pat her back. “It’s all right. They shouldn’t decide your life for you. What do you really want to do, anyway?”
“I’m not sure,” she sighs. “Whenever I think about it, I tense up and remember this.” She gestures vaguely at the air, and I know she means everything: our parents, the idea of school, losing her friends, everything.
“You don’t have to know. School hasn’t even started yet. You have time.” I lean my head on her shoulder.
Lola shrugs me off and faces me. “Mari, you’re an amazing sister, but none of this is your job! I’ll figure it out. Don’t worry about me. You’re going into high school next year; that’s a lot. Are you excited?”
I nod, and the conversation drifts, blocking out the argument outside our safe haven of a room.
One month before school starts, Lola stands up during dinner. “I’ve made a decision,” she declares. Our parents sit up a bit and exchange tired glances. “I’m going to college.” She looks directly at me and smiles her little half-smile.
Dad sighs with relief. “I’m glad you understand what’s best, mija.” He sounds disingenuous, his smile plastered on with the triumph of the win.
The fighting doesn’t stop there, of course. Lola blames herself, and I can only comfort her on the sidelines.
Summer goes by fast, and soon my sister is waving to me from a train window, grinning and crying all at once. I run after the train as it goes, my parents shouting after me.
And she is gone.
Now, a year later, there is only silence. It is the wrong kind of silence, like the silence of clinking utensils during dinner. A heavy silence, a silence made of bricks that we build around ourselves so it stops hurting so much. A silence of held-in tears and heavy shoulders. A silence so hard to break it’s better not to speak at all.
My reflection looks back at me, knowing all and knowing nothing. For what can reflections know about sorrow? She just looks vacant, and I feel an unending sadness. Maybe that is a sort of emptiness. Is there a piece of me that’s missing because Lola’s gone? When your sister isn’t there, does a part of you disappear, too? Before she left for college, I didn’t expect it to hurt this much. Now I’m here, standing alone in an empty room, and it hurts more than it ever has before.
I drag my hand down the glass, leaving streaks of fingerprints stark against the otherwise clean mirror. I look back into my eyes and stare at all the flecks of black in the brown. No one has ugly eyes, but especially not Lola. Her eyes swallowed you up with one glance. She made everything all right.
Sometimes I wish all of this were some terrible dream. That I was never the one to convince her to go to college. She would be off in bustling cities with her friends right now. Or she might be here, telling me it was all going to be okay.
“It was all a nightmare,” she would say, the first words spoken in this house for at least a month. Instead I whisper it to myself, even though I know it’s a lie.
Maybe I will sleep tonight after all. Maybe I’ll even dream of my sister.
I stand really close, my nose almost touching its reflected version. I wave to the other me, and she waves back.
My nose brushes against the cold glass. I realize that a blanket has followed me from the bed and rests on me like a cape.
My eyes move downward to my bare feet. A small blue bunny catches my gaze: my sister’s favorite stuffed animal. My parents say that my sister was born right on this very floor. The room holds so many memories. Like the time I fell out of my crib when I was barely two years old, leaving my sister, just five years older, panicking in her own bed. Later she was able to laugh about it, telling me it was the first time she realized just how much she loved me. Now her high school textbooks are stacked haphazardly in that same corner, dusty and forgotten.
When we got older, there were late-night whispers about friend betrayals and annoying teachers. Worries for the future. Conversations packed full to bursting. There was sitting on the bed, holding each other like anchors, as doors slammed and accusations were thrown. The windy times, we called them.
Lola is in her senior year of high school and unsure of what she wants to do in life. Her dream is to become a veterinarian, but all her friends are taking a gap year to explore the world. Dad will hear none of it, and Mom wants Lola to be happy, so they yell about what they think their daughter should do.
“I’m sorry about all this,” Lola whispers in my ear, lips wet with tears. We are sitting on my bed, huddled together. Our parents are the loudest they’ve ever been.
I pat her back. “It’s all right. They shouldn’t decide your life for you. What do you really want to do, anyway?”
“I’m not sure,” she sighs. “Whenever I think about it, I tense up and remember this.” She gestures vaguely at the air, and I know she means everything: our parents, the idea of school, losing her friends, everything.
“You don’t have to know. School hasn’t even started yet. You have time.” I lean my head on her shoulder.
Lola shrugs me off and faces me. “Mari, you’re an amazing sister, but none of this is your job! I’ll figure it out. Don’t worry about me. You’re going into high school next year; that’s a lot. Are you excited?”
I nod, and the conversation drifts, blocking out the argument outside our safe haven of a room.
One month before school starts, Lola stands up during dinner. “I’ve made a decision,” she declares. Our parents sit up a bit and exchange tired glances. “I’m going to college.” She looks directly at me and smiles her little half-smile.
Dad sighs with relief. “I’m glad you understand what’s best, mija.” He sounds disingenuous, his smile plastered on with the triumph of the win.
The fighting doesn’t stop there, of course. Lola blames herself, and I can only comfort her on the sidelines.
Summer goes by fast, and soon my sister is waving to me from a train window, grinning and crying all at once. I run after the train as it goes, my parents shouting after me.
And she is gone.
Now, a year later, there is only silence. It is the wrong kind of silence, like the silence of clinking utensils during dinner. A heavy silence, a silence made of bricks that we build around ourselves so it stops hurting so much. A silence of held-in tears and heavy shoulders. A silence so hard to break it’s better not to speak at all.
My reflection looks back at me, knowing all and knowing nothing. For what can reflections know about sorrow? She just looks vacant, and I feel an unending sadness. Maybe that is a sort of emptiness. Is there a piece of me that’s missing because Lola’s gone? When your sister isn’t there, does a part of you disappear, too? Before she left for college, I didn’t expect it to hurt this much. Now I’m here, standing alone in an empty room, and it hurts more than it ever has before.
I drag my hand down the glass, leaving streaks of fingerprints stark against the otherwise clean mirror. I look back into my eyes and stare at all the flecks of black in the brown. No one has ugly eyes, but especially not Lola. Her eyes swallowed you up with one glance. She made everything all right.
Sometimes I wish all of this were some terrible dream. That I was never the one to convince her to go to college. She would be off in bustling cities with her friends right now. Or she might be here, telling me it was all going to be okay.
“It was all a nightmare,” she would say, the first words spoken in this house for at least a month. Instead I whisper it to myself, even though I know it’s a lie.
Maybe I will sleep tonight after all. Maybe I’ll even dream of my sister.