Author: Of Pearls and Paints PM
It's been five years since that fateful day. Some say that the worst part of saying goodbye is the initial scene, words, whatever. The sight of seeing the person dead, the words of another telling you that they've moved on to another life. But to me, the worst part is moving on. Amelia reflects on her sister's death.Rated: Fiction K - English - Amelia O. & Willow O. - Words: 414 - Reviews: 1 - Favs: 2 - Published: 07-20-12 - Status: Complete - id: 8342655
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It's been five years since that fateful day. Some say that the worst part of saying goodbye is the initial scene, words, whatever. The sight of seeing the person dead, the words of another telling you that they've moved on to another life. But to me, the worst part is moving on.
Small things, such as seeing the old Scrabble game we used to play, or hearing the shrill sound of a young girl's laughter, thinking it's you. I'll catch myself hearing a random fact and think, I better tell this to Willow, but then I feel a horrible pang, remembering you aren't here.
The truth is, you never truly say goodbye to someone, really. Their essence still lives on around you, shifting and bending. So even though you're not here, in body, your spirit fills up every space in the room. It connects us together, like invisible spider webs.
Death isn't the end for you, I know. You'd instead think of it as a new beginning. A beginning where a small push couldn't break you, where you didn't have to live your life wrapped up in casts like a mummy.
Ironically enough, you didn't die from one of your breaks. You didn't even die from your spinal cord passing through the brain. Instead, you died from hypothermia. Of all the ways and times you could have died, why did this have to be the one time when you did?
Perhaps you liked it better this way. Maybe if I had a serious disability I would understand. If your OI decreed how you would die, or how you would most likely die, then you would want to deviate from the outcome given to you before you were born. To show that you would die in your own way.
It gets hard sometimes. The tiniest things set us off, our makeshift family. Makeshift as it is, we are building up our walls with cement, nailing our structures together. Because of you we have grown stronger and closer together.
Mom still bakes, but never went back to working at her old restaurant. Dad still work as a police officer. As for me, I still paint. We've moved on, but you've never left.
On the tough days, the days when a spica cast is enough for Mom to burst into tears, or when I am constantly reminded of you by the smooth texture of the frozen lake, we remember willow. The tree that bends instead of breaking.