One Sunday
My sister haunts me this evening. I can hear her full, unabashed laughter. It stalks the air around my head like a playful kitten. An insidious miasma, sneaking up on me when I've dropped my guard.
I am thinking of her as a toddler. As an adolescent and young adult. And her final years as her very own adult self. I watched her grow up in mental slides as nondescript cello music quietly wailed.
She was absolutely at peace when I saw her in the hospital operating theatre. A slight curl upon her mischievous lips. Like she knew something, and she was at peace. A strange expression, I mused. I wonder what she knew...
At least I knew those last two years were her happiest. See, she had some... mental afflictions. She had FAS. I'll leave it at the acronym, thank you very much. She was also on the spectrum. She was mentally about fifteen years old eternally.
Anyhow, our father was overly protective in her eyes. Of course, it was fatherly love in his eyes. He was on her ass about everything. But he had to be. She was forever fifteen.
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She didn't like it. She groused to me all the time; her hazel-green eyes flickered with gold when she was mad. So I often saw those eyes upset. Dad was always checking her fridge, her room, even the trash cans. He was making sure she wasn't drinking.
So, when our dad retired, he moved out of state. Instead of being under his thumb, she was finally free. She smiled so much more. She was happy. Her hair stayed brushed, and her clothes weren't rumpled. Her joyous laughter was full and irresistible. You couldn’t help but laugh too.
Just like most things in our lives, it wasn't meant to last long. She felt fully herself for about two years of her thirty-five years on the planet.
On her way home one night, an SUV driven by some dumb bitch mowed her down. Snapped her spinal cord. She was internally decapitated, so death was instantaneous.
That's all I want to say on that.
Her laughter. It trails me.
Ghostly, sing-songy on the ever-blowing southwestern wind.
