Dear A,
In two days, your bedroom will be empty and I will be able to use your special shampoo—the one that always made dad sneeze. The dip of my heart matches the curve of your lips when you talk about it. I won’t lie to you and say I’m happy to see you go. So I give you nothing more than an “I’ll miss you,” and a little tilt of my mouth—I can’t do much more than that. I place a hand over the cold, dense thing that has taken root in my stomach. It reminds me a little of when mom used to warn us about seeds growing into trees in our stomach when we were younger. But trees are never this cold, never this heavy. I can hardly walk with it. It keeps me bed ridden. It keeps my eyes wet. It’s started to creep up to the brain, too, I think. It’s infected all my thoughts, corrupting them until I can’t bear to think them and can’t clear them from my mind.
In 24 hours, your bedroom will be empty and your things will be in boxes by the door. Once upon a time, those boxes would’ve been a fort, or a car, or an airplane. I suppose they still resemble an airplane a little, only now they are flying away from me, leaving me here, and never coming back. I’ll watch, wingless and bitter, wishing I could chain you to the ground so you can never fly away from me again. Guilt will eat me alive before I can even finish that thought, before I can ever grow wings of my own. Why is it so hard for me to be happy for you? I should be. You want this. I should want this for you. You deserve to fly, you deserve your wings, you deserve to be happy. I shouldn’t want to dump every one of those boxes back in your bedroom, back where they belong. I shouldn’t want that. I really, really shouldn’t.
We left you there 2 hours ago. I didn’t cry. I don’t cry in front of you—ever. Especially not when your face is lit up like a christmas tree. Though the lights on our tree were never as bright and never the same shade as the row beneath it. Dad usually had to do the ones up by the top. Or, he did until you became the tallest. You were tall then, but you looked even taller as we said goodbye. You looked so grown up it made me sick. You weren’t in the Kids Corner with me anymore. No one was with me in my corner anymore. Mom and Dad may be in my corner, but they’re up on different levels. You were always the one down here with me. Even when your wings began to bud, you were down on my level, right there with me. But I guess sky’s the limit, and you were never one to adhere to “limits.” They were a concept to you, nothing more. I wish I felt the same.
We left you there yesterday. Dad left for work this morning. He won’t be back for weeks. Mom left for work before I was awake. She’ll be home later, and she’ll be thinking about dinner and about the best time to walk the dog. I’ll be here all day, bored out of my mind. A chunk of this house left with you yesterday. I think it misses you, too. It’s quiet here. Too quiet. The last stair didn’t creak today and the walls don’t echo the sounds of you typing in the kitchen like they used to. The dog hasn’t moved an inch since I’ve been awake. Whether he’s mourning the absence of you leaving forever or mom leaving for work, I don’t know. We all miss you here. Even if dad didn’t let it show and mom spent last night’s dinner talking about work. Nobody had to say it. There was an empty chair and too many leftovers. The silence was crushing me and so was that thing in my stomach. I miss you.
We left you there a week ago. I hate that I resent you for leaving me here. I hate that I even have the nerve to complain about it. What do I possibly have to be sad about here? I have everything. Not you, but everything else. I shouldn’t be bothered. It’s not your fault. I hate you for not being here, even though I’m so proud of you for getting there. I wanted to call you today. I didn’t. I don’t know why I didn’t. Maybe it’s because I’m terrible with phone calls. Maybe it’s because I wouldn’t be able to handle it if you didn’t pick up. Maybe I’m stillmad at you. And maybe that makes me a terrible person. It probably does. It definitely does. What decent person hates their brother for leaving them behind to pursue their dreams? Nobody does. No one decent does that. No one decent thinks that. No decent person thinks like this.
We left you there two weeks ago. I called you for the first time today. You don’t sound like you over the phone. But I guess the phone makes everyone sound different. Either that or you’ve already changed after two weeks away at Fancy Pants School, which I refuse to believe. I told you about school, about mom and dad, who I’m pretty sure have called you every day since you left, even though their success rate is 50/50 at best. You told me about school, about your odd roommate, and about the horrifying food that comes with your meal plan. I guess both of us have sucky classes this year. And neither of us were enjoying the early mornings. It felt a little like talking to a classmate; friendly, polite, never going much deeper than “How are things?” But you were still you. You’re still in my corner.
You left a while ago. We call once a week now. Mom and dad now call every second day, whether you like it or not (I can tell you don’t), but it’s better than every day, right? We’ve both started to like our classes a little more now, I think. We still agree that the early mornings suck because who doesn’t? You’re definitely still you—albeit with a little less sleep and a lot more schoolwork. The house feels alive again. You’ll be home soon for Christmas. We need you to put the lights on the top of the tree. The thing melted. Everything feel lighter now. I have so much to tell you over Christmas dinner (which will hopefully be pizza this year instead of turkey), but I’ll keep it short for now. I miss you. I love you. I’m proud of you. And I hope you never read this.
Love, your totally amazing sister
Author’s Note
I wrote this piece about my brother moving away to university. We’ve always been very close, so him leaving had a huge impact on me. I wrote this with the intention of never letting it leave my files, but I really just wanted to put my feelings out somewhere, even if it wasn’t to anyone I know. Things do get better and nothing is forever, whether it’s something of your own you’re struggling with, someone leaving your life, or anything else. Everything has to get better at some point and I promise those better times are right around the corner :)
About Author
Bree W. is an aspiring author from Canada. Besides being a writer, she’s also a dancer, gymnast, and chronic music listener. She’s currently hard at work plotting her debut novel.
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