My heart beat in time with the ticking of the clock that hung on your bedroom wall as I stared up at the ceiling. Everytime I looked upward, the rays of sunlight filtering in through the open window and playing across the white paint in odd patterns, I thought of you. You were supposed to stay with me. You were supposed to stay, and now I’m alone in a room comprised of cobwebs and bittersweet memories.

The blanket was the hardest. It’s so odd, isn’t it? I never realized how much your baby blanket meant to me until Hazel tossed it carelessly into the box with the words ‘THROW AWAY’ scrawled across the cardboard in black marker. The fabric had ripped, and the blue color had faded from all those days of being dragged around the sun-soaked garden as we played hide and seek. I could always find you, hiding in the sturdy branches of the cherry blossom tree, your eyes squeezed shut, sure that so long as you couldn’t see me I wouldn’t be able to see you either. That blanket couldn’t have been salvaged. And we’d already waited long enough to clean out your room.

For months after the funeral, your door had stayed shut, and I could imagine that you were in there still, jotting your thoughts down into that pink leather-bound notebook, drumming your favorite blue ballpoint pen on the cover as you mulled over the happenings of your day. You’d always been a writer, scrawling down the beautiful words that flowed from your brain to your hand as the ink flowed from the pen to the page. You were like a magician with your words. You could bend them to your will, arranging them with a careful hand and a touch of enchantment. It was easy to lose myself in the mirages of you that I tried to pass off as the real thing.

But one day, I woke up to Hazel leaning over me, hair tied back and a sympathetic smile on her freckled face, and I knew. That was the day that I had to face the facts. You were gone. You weren’t hiding out behind that door, and you wouldn’t smile up at me when I walked in. You wouldn’t drag me over to the window seat and read me your poems as we sipped tea from those misshapen mugs that we’d made at the pottery class Hazel had taken us to that one summer. You wouldn’t listen to me as I hung upside down on your bed, ranting about Peter Leitner and how he was flirting with Julie Kavinsky after soccer practice again. You wouldn’t squeeze my hand in fear, leaving little half-moon impressions on my palm, when we watched those budget horror films on my laptop at 2am.

As Hazel led me into the room, everything felt wrong. The yellow of the walls was less vibrant, the light from the desk lamp less bright. It was as if you were the glue that held every piece of this place together. Your smile lightened the color of the paint, your gentle voice brightened the glow of the light bulb. You were everything, and then you were nothing, and even your bedroom isn’t so warm and cozy anymore.

I could feel Hazel’s hand on the small of my back, a reassuring presence as I stepped through the threshold. She was just trying to be there for me like any mother would have. But she could never be my real mother. And every time I looked into her eyes, I remembered that you weren’t the only one that I had lost. She clasped my hand in hers as we sat on the edge of your bed, the soft comforter grounding me, keeping me safe from it all.

I remember when we were younger, and when things got bad, we would pretend that we could fly away from it all, and grow old among the clouds. Now I knew that I didn’t have wings, and the clouds weren’t made of cotton candy. But sometimes, I still wanted to fly away from it all, leave behind that glossy casket and that lisping celebrant who acted like he knew you. He spoke about your green eyes as if he had seen your thirst for adventure reflected in them. He went on and on about your loving nature, as if he were the one who felt the warmth that seeped from your hugs or the kind glow of your smile. I squeezed Hazel’s hand back, reminding myself that even though you were off in the land of little girls with wings and cotton candy clouds, I was still here, in this dusty room, with a woman who was trying desperately to be a person she could never be.

Everytime I tried to stand steadily, tried to do what needed to be done, the reality of the fact that you were really gone ricocheted back into me like a ton of bricks. Tears streamed down my face silently, leaving salt tracks on my skin. I think of that time that I was sobbing, and you pulled my face into your shoulder, and held me tightly. The moon was full and your sweater was soft and you were the best sister I could have ever asked for. Now every tangible part of you has disintegrated into nothingness, and even though Hazel gives great hugs and that sweater is probably still hanging in your closet, things will never be the same. The moon is full in the sky now, as I sit here, but you are not beside me, and so the moon doesn’t shine so bright anymore.

Hazel holds up your converse shoes, the white ones that you doodled all over, and suddenly I can see you. You’re there, jumping from one side of the bridge to the other, a smile on your face and your arms flung high above your head. You’re rushing down the road to catch the bus, your feet hitting the ground rhythmically as you jog. You’re tiptoeing as we climb out the window and onto the roof, to watch for shooting stars. Those shoes carried you until you couldn’t be carried any more. They steadied you when the earth threatened to crumble beneath you. They held you up when I was terrified that you would fall down. Oh, what a pair of shoes can mean, and they too were tossed into the ‘THROW AWAY’ box.

Your ceramic elephant that Aunt Cynthia had brought back from her African safari, with the chipped trunk from we’d had a pillow fight and I’d accidently knocked it to the floor. You wouldn’t talk to me for a whole week. My heart aches as I watch Hazel place it into the ‘DONATE’ pile. Hazel isn’t quite as sentimental as I had thought, I guess. And I know that she’s trying to help, but the only thing she is doing is reopening a wound that wasn’t even fully healed yet. Hazel could never feel the way about you that I do.

We were bonded, you and I, my veins pumping blood that ran the same red as your’s. You were the light that brightened my darkness, and now I cannot see a foot in front of me. You made me want to do things, made me want to be someone. Now, the chambers of my chest are echoing desperately for a purpose that only you can provide. When we used to play pretend, I would always let you be the hero. You liked to be a savior, and I always needed saving. You lived your life in a state of blissful ignorance, and I was a walking reality check. I think we balanced each other out quite well. You helped me reach for the stars, and I made sure you didn’t float off into space. But now I don’t have your beautiful bliss, not a drop of joy to drink. All I am now is sad thoughts in dark rooms, living a life of constant reminders that I will never be the same without you. They tell you that losing someone is difficult, but people always seem to get over it. I don’t think I will. It’s been months, and I’m still not the same girl I once was.

Perhaps I was too easily shaped by the people around me. Maybe I never really did think or do anything for myself. It could be that I really was just a reflection of you, an attempt at your allure that never quite got it right. Even if all of those things are true, though, that doesn’t make it hurt any less. My heart aches for you. It doesn’t seem to understand the fact that you can’t come back, no matter how many wishbones I break or green M&Ms I eat. My wish can’t come true. It isn’t like attending Yale marrying a famous actor. Because even though those things are far fetched, they’re at least plausible. You’re six feet under, and there’s no such thing as a time machine. I can’t bring you back.

Hazel reaches into your desk and pulls out those pretty pens that I got you for Christmas two years ago, the ones with the fancy case and the extra ink cartridges. She places them into the ‘DONATE’ box too, without even a second glance. Perhaps I should be glad that Hazel is so willing to do this, to clean up the remains of a life that was cut short. If it weren’t for her, I would never have been able to stomach this. Everything in this room is how you left it, and how you expected to find it when you got home that day. You hadn’t emptied the trash can or locked up your college funds or hidden your notebook. But nothing a guarantee, and you never know which day will be the last one that you open your eyes. Everytime I say goodbye, now, I act as if I will never see the person again. It’s better to drag out every farewell than to be bid an inadequate adieu to someone whom you are uncertain you will see next walking the streets or at their funeral.

I am always so unsure of myself nowadays, always afraid that if I take one false step the world would all come crashing down on top of me. When you were around I was never quite this uncertain. Every move didn’t feel so tremendously essential. The weight on my shoulders never threatened to break every bone in my back when you were standing beside me, but now I don’t have a bodyguard to keep me safe from the worries and the fears. They are the weeds that grow proud and tall in a garden that used to bloom with beautiful flowers, blossoms of hope born from seeds of love. You used tend to my garden, and I thought you always would, so I never learned how. I always thought that the older sister was supposed to be the one who figured things out, the one who knew what to do when the going got tough. But you shielded me when things got hard, and I never learned how to deal with them on my own.

I’m navigating a world I’m supposed to understand from beneath a blindfold that you long ago placed upon my eyes to conceal me from the darkness. I took for granted your protection, and now I am hopelessly lost. Hazel has tried to guide me, but I think you were something of a protectant for her too. You were so in love with the world that you had mastered all of its evils. Hazel and I don’t write love stories in notebooks or dance in the sunshine on early mornings or pick flowers and tuck them behind our ears. We don’t live in the moment. We don’t have the capacity to let things go. We are too full of hate and fear and guilt, loaded down with it, plagued incessantly by it. We don’t have all that love and belief and kindness packed into us like you did. You were the glue that held together this room, yes, but you were also the glue that held together this family.

Time passes, and the boxes grow full. I can see your favorite sweater peeking out from the ‘DONATE’ box, the pink sleeves tucked away neatly. Something else catches my eye: your jewelry box, the one that your friend David made for you on your eleventh birthday. He’d painted the box with butterflies, the beating of the wings captured in the soft strokes of the paint brush. David had always had an affinity for art. He’d even painted a beautiful portrait for your funeral.

The man was at the service, by the way. The man who killed you. Well, of course, he hadn’t been in his right mind, but that didn’t change the fact that you were dead and he was still kicking. He’d fallen asleep at the wheel after working overtime, and his blue truck had plowed forcefully into your bicycle. You were dead as soon as your body hit the pavement a few yards away. He’d been charged with negligent homicide, but he’d been allowed to attend the funeral. I knew that he hadn’t meant to kill you, I knew that fact deep down in my bones. I’d even seen him sobbing as he stared down at your frail body in the wooden casket. I couldn’t help but resent him, though. You, my only sister, my sunshine on a rainy day, are gone, because he couldn’t just wait until he was more alert to drive home. He hadn’t gotten into that truck with the intention of killing a young girl. But now you’re under the ground, your lips perpetually red and your hair permanently curled into tight little ringlets, and he’ll be wearing an orange jumpsuit for thirty more years in a penitentiary somewhere.

After Hazel leaves me alone, alone with all of my thoughts and these boxes of you, I lie back onto the bed, resting my head on the same pillow that your’s had rested on for so many years. I pulled the sheets closer to me, clutching at the fabric as my breath hitched. Because all of the sudden, everything felt a bit different. Like maybe the weight of the world was being lifted off of my shoulders as I helped Hazel carry those boxes down to her car. Like maybe I can be myself without you there to tell me who to be. I love you, and I forever and always will. But my heart is not empty without you in it. I cannot dishonor your love of the world around me by not putting my all into doing what you did best, which was making people smile. Because no matter how long you’re gone, just the memory of you warms my fragile heart.