Last night, I could hear my mother crying in her sleep. Strangely enough, it was to the rhythm of the beads pounding on the roof, begging to be let in. Rain outside, tears inside, falling simultaneously. Madeline used to say, that when it rained, the angels were crying for us. The angels were crying for her that day. When she squeezed my hand for the last time, and the week after, when I sat in the hard chair, shrouded in black. It’s quite nice when you think about it. Out of all the people in the world, the angels had time to cry for my sister. Or maybe, it was for us, the ones left without her. Mother and I.
Yes. That makes more sense.
Madeline had this thirst for life, while I only went through the motions everyday tirelessly. She wanted to live, I wanted to die. Funny how life works. She went gracefully, with a measure of peace in her eyes. Had I gone, it would have been for the sympathy. For the people trying to force tears, pretending they cared. The angels wouldn’t shed any tears though. They don’t cry for people like me.
You see, now it’s different. I can’t fantasize about that anymore. Not now that I’m the only one left. The only one Mother has to hold in the night. She deserves a daughter, no matter how damaged.
I try to help her, I really do, but she’s too independent to let me wipe her tears. Children shouldn’t have to worry about that kind of thing. Not at the tender age of thirteen. Or, at least that’s what the neighbor ladies say as I pass by on my way to school every morning.
“How sad….”
“Losing her father that young….”
“Her sister too….”
“Imagine the pain….”
I hate those ladies. Sitting there, gossiping and having a good time, while the rest of us are hurting. The worst part is, they think they know what it feels like. But they don’t. They come up with comparisons about dogs and cats, but it’s just not the same. I guess they just like feeling like they know it all. Like they’ve gone through what I have. But they haven’t.
People are the worst thing in the world, both to have, and to lose. You could say, that when someone dies, you see who they really are, or were. Their actions live on and the consequences of them, but you can see their soul shining through their eyes as it leaves their body. It’s the worst thing in the world to see that. To see a life slip away.
Madeline loved music. She would coop herself up in our room and play the radio, dancing around to the rhythm of whatever tune was playing. And then there were the bedtime songs. She used to sing to me at night, both of us fairly small. She had a pretty voice, untrained, which made it all the more raw. Beautiful and melodic, her words would fall upon my ears and I remember trying to capture them inside of me. To keep them there, untouched, until the day when I would want to look back and listen to them again.
Even though we ain’t got money, I’m so in love with you honey.
And everything will bring a chain of love…
And then.
Three little birds, sat on my window, and they told me I don’t need to worry…
And then.
Should I give up, or should I just keep chasing pavements,
Even if it leads nowhere…
They say only the good die young, which for all I know, may be true. But for us, the ones left in the aftermath, what is there for us? Flowers and casseroles. As if food can lessen the pain. Heal the wounds. I wish it could. I wish I could fill the house with flowers and fall under the spell of their sweet fragrance, letting myself forget. Letting the flowers inhale all of the memories, the bad and the good. That way, I could start over, in a world without Madeline.
They made a shrine outside our house. A beautiful wall of pictures and wreaths with her drawings tucked into all the corners. She liked to draw. She never seemed to keep her art though; instead she would give it away. To her friends, her teachers, the man that begged outside the Wal-Mart. Whenever I asked why, she would only roll her eyes and smile slightly, saying that it spread joy. That some people needed that gesture of kindness to make their day.
The other day, I took it in. The shrine I mean. I didn’t need the jab to the heart whenever I saw it. It only reminded me of the one thing I would have to learn to live with. The fact that she wasn’t coming back.
Last night, I could hear my mother crying in her sleep. . Strangely enough, it was to the rhythm of the beads pounding on the roof, begging to be let in. Rain outside, tears inside, falling simultaneously. I couldn’t help her though. I was playing the game of Forgetting. I only pretended the tears from her eyes were the ones from the angel’s. Weeping for us. Why, I didn’t know. I had Forgotten. But I bottled them, and tucked the vial under my pillow. I dreamed dreams of white and vast expanses of “where she used to be”. The sleep came easy that night.
Yes. That makes more sense.
Madeline had this thirst for life, while I only went through the motions everyday tirelessly. She wanted to live, I wanted to die. Funny how life works. She went gracefully, with a measure of peace in her eyes. Had I gone, it would have been for the sympathy. For the people trying to force tears, pretending they cared. The angels wouldn’t shed any tears though. They don’t cry for people like me.
You see, now it’s different. I can’t fantasize about that anymore. Not now that I’m the only one left. The only one Mother has to hold in the night. She deserves a daughter, no matter how damaged.
I try to help her, I really do, but she’s too independent to let me wipe her tears. Children shouldn’t have to worry about that kind of thing. Not at the tender age of thirteen. Or, at least that’s what the neighbor ladies say as I pass by on my way to school every morning.
“How sad….”
“Losing her father that young….”
“Her sister too….”
“Imagine the pain….”
I hate those ladies. Sitting there, gossiping and having a good time, while the rest of us are hurting. The worst part is, they think they know what it feels like. But they don’t. They come up with comparisons about dogs and cats, but it’s just not the same. I guess they just like feeling like they know it all. Like they’ve gone through what I have. But they haven’t.
People are the worst thing in the world, both to have, and to lose. You could say, that when someone dies, you see who they really are, or were. Their actions live on and the consequences of them, but you can see their soul shining through their eyes as it leaves their body. It’s the worst thing in the world to see that. To see a life slip away.
Madeline loved music. She would coop herself up in our room and play the radio, dancing around to the rhythm of whatever tune was playing. And then there were the bedtime songs. She used to sing to me at night, both of us fairly small. She had a pretty voice, untrained, which made it all the more raw. Beautiful and melodic, her words would fall upon my ears and I remember trying to capture them inside of me. To keep them there, untouched, until the day when I would want to look back and listen to them again.
Even though we ain’t got money, I’m so in love with you honey.
And everything will bring a chain of love…
And then.
Three little birds, sat on my window, and they told me I don’t need to worry…
And then.
Should I give up, or should I just keep chasing pavements,
Even if it leads nowhere…
They say only the good die young, which for all I know, may be true. But for us, the ones left in the aftermath, what is there for us? Flowers and casseroles. As if food can lessen the pain. Heal the wounds. I wish it could. I wish I could fill the house with flowers and fall under the spell of their sweet fragrance, letting myself forget. Letting the flowers inhale all of the memories, the bad and the good. That way, I could start over, in a world without Madeline.
They made a shrine outside our house. A beautiful wall of pictures and wreaths with her drawings tucked into all the corners. She liked to draw. She never seemed to keep her art though; instead she would give it away. To her friends, her teachers, the man that begged outside the Wal-Mart. Whenever I asked why, she would only roll her eyes and smile slightly, saying that it spread joy. That some people needed that gesture of kindness to make their day.
The other day, I took it in. The shrine I mean. I didn’t need the jab to the heart whenever I saw it. It only reminded me of the one thing I would have to learn to live with. The fact that she wasn’t coming back.
Last night, I could hear my mother crying in her sleep. . Strangely enough, it was to the rhythm of the beads pounding on the roof, begging to be let in. Rain outside, tears inside, falling simultaneously. I couldn’t help her though. I was playing the game of Forgetting. I only pretended the tears from her eyes were the ones from the angel’s. Weeping for us. Why, I didn’t know. I had Forgotten. But I bottled them, and tucked the vial under my pillow. I dreamed dreams of white and vast expanses of “where she used to be”. The sleep came easy that night.
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