She smiles at me weakly, as though the simple act of greeting me warmly is using up every muscle in her body. Her frail arms fall limp at her side, too fragile to move even an inch. Her face is sunken in enough to make her seem older than she really is, not young enough to have had an eight year old son. I want to recognize her, but she is not the same. I don't think she ever will be.
Mom told me to be careful near her, as if she is a porcelain doll in an antique shop. I feel too powerful in her presence; one touch from me and she could shatter. I don't like this sudden change in position. I used to be the one who was small and fearful, and she was always strong enough to help me through the hard times. But now I feel bigger than her in more ways than one.
She tries to wrap her brittle arms around my body; a heartbreaking attempt at a hug. My aunt and I were once an alliance, a brick wall at conquering my parent's strict rules. But when she whispers into my ear, reminding me to always listen to them, I know that things have definitely changed.
When she lost my little cousin, she lost more than just a spot at the dinner table. She lost dirty socks lying around after baseball games, permission slips left on the kitchen counter waiting to be signed, and the sound of innocent laughter during Saturday morning cartoons.
I have heard through the grapevine of our family that she has started going to therapy. But I think we all secretly know that it won't help her. Before any of this happened, she was the strongest person I knew. But my aunt is a broken window now; no matter how hard we try to put her back together, those cracks will always be visible.
She pulls away from our hug and I give her a devoted smile. I can see it in her hollow eyes that she blames herself. I want to tell her that it was not her fault, but I cannot seem to find the words to do so. Because when I look at her pale figure, I am seeing right through her. It's as if she is standing in front of me, but she is not really here.
Maybe, along with her son, she has left the world.
Mom told me to be careful near her, as if she is a porcelain doll in an antique shop. I feel too powerful in her presence; one touch from me and she could shatter. I don't like this sudden change in position. I used to be the one who was small and fearful, and she was always strong enough to help me through the hard times. But now I feel bigger than her in more ways than one.
She tries to wrap her brittle arms around my body; a heartbreaking attempt at a hug. My aunt and I were once an alliance, a brick wall at conquering my parent's strict rules. But when she whispers into my ear, reminding me to always listen to them, I know that things have definitely changed.
When she lost my little cousin, she lost more than just a spot at the dinner table. She lost dirty socks lying around after baseball games, permission slips left on the kitchen counter waiting to be signed, and the sound of innocent laughter during Saturday morning cartoons.
I have heard through the grapevine of our family that she has started going to therapy. But I think we all secretly know that it won't help her. Before any of this happened, she was the strongest person I knew. But my aunt is a broken window now; no matter how hard we try to put her back together, those cracks will always be visible.
She pulls away from our hug and I give her a devoted smile. I can see it in her hollow eyes that she blames herself. I want to tell her that it was not her fault, but I cannot seem to find the words to do so. Because when I look at her pale figure, I am seeing right through her. It's as if she is standing in front of me, but she is not really here.
Maybe, along with her son, she has left the world.
CammyS
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