November 4, 2016 – November 9, 2016

2nd Draft – January 14, 2017

3rd Draft – March 1, 2017

“Remembrance”

I loved my little sister more than my own life. Eleven years my junior, Amelia was my
disciple. And for her memory, I have pulled myself out of bed every day, though my heart
wanted no part of it. Today, however, feels different. Even as the cold winds cripple our world,
choking it into silenced slumber, my icy eyes open with a flutter and a faint sparkle. The white
light reflecting off the snowy hills seems a bit warmer, softer. Today, the ice revives my heart.
She always loved the snow.
Pushing myself up, the cocoon of warm blankets slip from my shoulders. How early is it?
The servants have not come in yet to wake me, and based on the sunlight, I wager it is around
seven or eight in the morning. The sun has barely established its reign over these frozen
mountains, the battle of dawn drawing to a close, just as my own battle is being won.
Maybe I will visit her today.
As much as I frequent her in my thoughts, I have not yet been to the place where she
rests since the day we laid her there. Our mother and father go to her often, but I cannot bear
the idea. Let her live on in my memory. Let her thrive there, play there. Let my dear Amelia
remain with me through these dark months of winter. Maybe I should wait until next season to
let her slip from me.
No, I will visit her today.
I untie my golden hair so that it falls about me in waves. Pushing the blankets back, my
feet settle on the cold floor as I grasp the candle on my bed-stand. With a crack, I strike a
match, the candle lights seconds later. If I leave now, no one will be awake quite yet to come
with me. I don’t know if I can handle any more of Mother’s tears or Father’s detached passivity.
It will probably be best for me to deal with this on my own – just me and the stillness.
At my wardrobe, I pull out a simple green dress and a red, wool cloak, its hood ringed in
rabbit fur. Amelia had always loved this cloak. I remember a time when I came into my room to
wash up before dinner and had found her here, standing before my mirror. On her noble,
delicate shoulders the cloak had hung, her head held high like a proud queen. A chuckle had
given me away. Amelia had spun around, cheeks as red as the dyed wool. I will never forget
that guilty face.
I stare at the cloak. I hadn’t worn it since my little sister’s passing. Would I ever be able
to bear the thought of it about my shoulders as it had been about hers? She looked lovelier in it
than I ever did, even if it was far too big for her. Then again, what else would be more
appropriate for a day like today than this cloak? I stroke the rabbit fur, eyes glazed.
I lay both the dress and cloak on my bed. As I undress, my room threatens to remind me
of sweet times that I have pushed down for months. I swallow hard. Instead, I redirect my
mind to the mirror’s reflection. I know that if my mother, proper woman that she is, was aware
that her eldest daughter was going out with her hair down, she would be displeased. I don’t
particularly feel in the mood to tie it up again. Instead, I walk to my vanity, picking up the
flower crown that I had made days earlier. Amelia and I used to make them all the time – so
much so that the gardener forbade us from going into the garden.
 I cradle the crown carefully before tying it on like a head band. After pulling on my
leather gloves and boots, I find myself looking into my mirror again. The image of what my
sister could have become, if she had received more time, met me there. It was almost as if I was
the embodiment of the future that had been stolen from Amelia. I touch my cheek as a tear
slips from my eye. Oh, Amelia. What life you could have lived!
Mustering my waning strength, I sniffle. A deep breath in. A long stare at the ceiling. A
few moments later, the tears are gone and the tightness in my throat has eased. Now to
actually journey to her gravesite. I straighten out my dress, then spin around to see if there was
anything else I was missing. My gaze falls upon the book on my desk.
A Collection of Fairytales from Around the World…
It is fast becoming a family heirloom. My mother had received it as a child when she was
very little and kept it for when she had children of her own. I was born, and my mother had
read the stories to me ever since, enchanting my heart in captivating stories of beauty, mystery,
mischief, and valor. I know them all by heart. When Amelia came into this world, I gave the
book to her, though she liked it best when I read it aloud.
I had best take it with me too. Gliding to it, my hands pick it up, as if it was a crystal
goblet used by the queen herself. I hold it a moment, my gut tightening. A thin veil of tears
again sting my heart as a sodden cloth settles in my throat. My eyes are forced to the ceiling
once more. I nod my head definitively and tuck the book into its hiding place in my bag. I’ll take
the book with me, but I don’t want to go through the torture of remembering all that it meant
to us. I will just bring it for the sake of propriety, I decide.
I tug open my creaky door and slip out. Dark hallways fill my vision, the light at the end
so distant. Standing there in that moment, it seems impossible to travel all the way through the
darkness. My feet are heavy, but I won’t let them stop me like they have stopped me for the
past several months. This time, I will make it to the end of the hallway. Amelia would have
wanted that for me.
Stepping into the firelight of the parlor’s hearth, directly before me is the heavy front
door, the last barrier between me and the outdoors. I step heavily on the carpet as I make my
way over to the door. Grasping it with a firm hand, I pull as strongly as I am able, the door
swinging open much easier than it looks like it will. As it does, I realize that the barriers and
walls which had kept me in my room for all this time really were not as hard to breach as I had
thought. They move much more eagerly than I anticipated. As it turns out, it wasn’t the dark
hallway or the heavy door that kept me from going to my sister all this time. It was me…
For a moment, my trembling heart sheds its anxiety, a calm settling like snow. Maybe it
is possible to step out from beneath the choking shadow of her gravestone? Maybe it is
possible to continue moving forward in my life? I allow myself to accept the tentative hope that
her death will not kill me too.
 A second later, I am blasted with cold air. Reluctance grips me all over again, making me
hesitate. What if something happens and I get stuck outside with no one around to help me?
What if the door isn’t trying to keep me captive, but is protecting me from this deathly chill? My
fogged breath quickens, blocking my vision. I should go back.
I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. Pressing my lips together, my nails dig into my
palms, crushing my hope in balled fists. Just as I step back, sunlight glints off the snow, catching
my attention. I stop and turn to look back at the snow. My fears mingle with a sensation of awe.
A quietness and a peace settles around me, even as I shiver. Pain and calm live in harmony here
– to abandon it would be to abandon the light and the peace. If I go back now, I will lose all of
the ground I have gained. Peace is my goal. Peace for my family. Peace for my sister.
Peace for myself.
I wrap my cloak around myself and step into the snow. Silent, I follow the path, moving
through the dead trees, my mind as dormant as they are. The snow seems to soak in the quiet
until the whole atmosphere is saturated with it. The peace cultivates my mind as seeds of hope
are replanted. My shoulders lift just a bit as I smile, breathing in the still air.
I come to a large gravestone amidst many others, and I recognize it as my sister’s. My
hands tremble. This is it; the dreaded moment. I walk to the bench that stands next to the
gravestone, taking a seat. The gravestone looms over me. My hand sets upon it, almost without
my willing it to. My hand moves from the rough surface of the gravestone to the vine of roses
we had planted on the day of her burial. They had grown since then. The petals were fragile and
thin as paper against my fingers, brown and clinging to life. Some were encased in ice. Roses
had been Amelia’s favorite flower. She would have been happy with them being here, would
have been enchanted by their wintery tombs. I sigh, dropping my hand.
I wonder if she felt it was unfair. Like we all do in our childhood, I remember how Amelia
would pucker her lips and cry, “It’s not fair!” She was so cute; it makes me smile still. But here I
am, her older sister, virtually doing the same. It isn’t fair. My coming here wouldn’t make it fair.
Of all the ways a little girl’s life should end, why must it be through an adventurous climb?
When it happened, I wanted to blame those children with her that had spurred her on, but I
know it wasn’t their fault. It just isn’t fair.
For a while, I blamed myself, standing not so far away, but how could I have known? I
blamed Mother, the one who allowed Amelia to play with those reckless children. I blamed the
mountain’s loose stones! I blamed God, who ripped her precious soul from us. It isn’t fair. If
someone had acted differently, if something had changed the circumstances, Amelia would be
with me now, begging me to play with her in the snow.
But nothing is changed. Nothing can be changed. No wishing of mine can urge the
mountain to cling to its rocks, not allowing them to fall away under Amelia’s hand. I cannot
change the past. I cannot convince God to bring her back to me. Thus, fairness is dead – it is
irrelevant and one must learn to live with the circumstances dealt her. It is either live or
become a breathing corpse, rot corrupting your heart.
I look to the bag in my lap. Reality goes beyond fairness. I must accept her death, just as
she has accepted it. For whatever reason, God held his hand out to her and she took it, going
with him to the afterlife. I am left behind. To hold against God the things that I cannot possibly
understand is utterly laughable, yet that fact does not staunch the bleeding in my soul. Even
though it is unfair, maybe that is okay? Amelia had accepted as a young child that life is hardly
ever fair. It is my turn now. No matter whether or not I understand it, it is my turn to spread my
arms to hardship, embracing it rather than run from it.
After sitting there a few moments in the stillness, I pry open my bag. Although I am
hesitant, the book is pulled out and set it gently in my lap. If only Amelia could have been here
now, I would open it and read to her like nothing had changed.
My caged memories murmur at the edges of my mind, beckoning me to revisit moments
I had refused to think about. I close my eyes and, for the first time, allow myself to peruse the
book. I know that if I do not, I will never be able to truly embrace the reality of what I have lost.
Opening my eyes once more, my hand pulls back the cover and begins to leaf through the old
pages.
This was the first story I ever read her. She couldn’t even understand what I was reading
back then. Oh, and this was our favorite story; I always read it to her on picnics once she was
tired from playing so hard. As I flip through, my heart begins to warm, though in a strange,
almost bitter way. I remember moments of cuddling up by the fire, reading with warm mugs
and fluffy blankets of the finest wool. Moments of laughter. Moments where we would be
reading one second, and the next acting out the story ourselves. Moments that are forever
gone now, but maybe that is okay.
After the last page of the book, I close it gently and hug it to my chest. My lips curl up in
the smallest of smiles. My mind wanders through all the beautiful memories with dear Amelia.
Playing pretend, chasing one another endlessly around the table, brushing her gentle curls. Her
teacher may have taught her the essentials for how to be a young lady, but I taught her poise. I
taught her how to carry herself in each moment, giving her practical guidance rather than
empty and heartless instruction. Amelia was birthed from my mother, but it was under my wing
that she hid when she was afraid. We exchanged laughs, kisses, cuddling through warm nights. I
was devoted to her, and she to me.
That day, a memoir for my dearest Amelia is created in my heart. I will never forget my
little sister. Rather, let it grow within me; let it flourish into something beautiful. Although my
sister is gone and will never return, that day, she changed me in a way no one else could have.
She taught me to heal.