What I See in You: A Letter to the Shell of My Sister

Today I told you that the high point of my week was you being alive. You feigned a smile because it made you nervous but I could see the tears welling up in your eyes. You said you did not want your continued existence to have to be a high in my life. You wanted me to take it for granted.

I can’t take you for granted anymore. In the past two weeks, you have almost left us three times.

As you lay in your hospital bed, your hand in mine, I stare intently at your face. I never knew watching someone all day could be so incredibly draining. I study the shell of you, searching for a piece of my sister inside.

In the freckles on your nose I see the sun, visible reminders of the kisses it has given you. Growing up with sand between your toes and salt water in your hair, the sunshine fed you like a flower. You reveled in the mud and the thorns, always favoring adventure over comfort.

In the hollows of your cheeks I remember your laughter. The full-bellied, all-encompassing, infectious laugh that you embarrassingly called your own. I tell myself that I will hear it again. I pray that I will hear it again.

In the scar on your hairline I see Thanksgiving Day, 2001. We were playing dolls at Grandma’s house and you were trying desperately to open an armoire three times your size. Your determination overcame your six year-old strength and you pulled the 200 pound piece of furniture on top of yourself (a feat I would not believe to this day had I not been present). The crown molding at the top cut a one inch long slice into your forehead. You smiled all day long, proudly showing your thirteen stitches off at dinner.

From your lips I imagine your voice. It fills my head, and I can hear you singing at the top of your lungs in the passenger seat as we drive too fast, feeling the wind in our hair and leaving our worries in our wake. I think of your charm, your way with words like no other. Your ability to wrap someone around your finger with a flash of your smile and the sparkle in your eyes has always left me in awe. You have always been special.

In your tears I feel your compassion. You scream, moan, and sob in pain, but never fail to utter a “thank you” as someone leaves your room. You tell mom to take a nap, but you know she can’t. You tell me to go home, do my reading, and go to class. You know that all I can do is worry, so you let me sit here and stare at you all day long.

And as I say “love you, goodnight,” I blink back tears. For the past eighteen years, it has been the last thing we say to each other every night before we go to sleep. You respond feebly. I give mom a hug and tell her the same thing. I give you one more kiss on the forehead, savoring your scent, and say it again. You look at me, tears in your eyes — fear in your eyes — and say it twice in a row.

As I walk to my car, staring at the fluorescent lights to hold back my tears, I can’t fight the haunting feeling that this time it might have been goodbye instead of goodnight.