I close my eyes as tight as they can go.
The lights go off, and my imagination switches on. Pictures flash
through my mind like an old film from the fifties.
I remember driving home by myself for the first time. Now, I look
into the future and imagine that I am walking across the stage to receive
my college diploma. The years pass, and I hear my fianc
é say "I do." I
look further and listen to the gentle gurgles coming from my baby's
nursery. A smile discreetly appears as memories past and thoughts of the
future travel through my soul.
I journey to memories of my high school graduation, and a tear
suddenly trickles down my cheek. I look into the bleachers packed with
families and friends. I see my parents wrapped in pride, and I look to
their side for Katie and Kevin's approval. But Katie, my older sister, is
not there.
My eyes abruptly open as I am snapped back into reality. I remember
being called out of Spanish class in tenth grade and taken to the hospital
to see Katie, who had cancer, for the final time. It was an excruciating
task, but I found the good in Katie's tragic death.
Katie's room is exactly the way she left it on a Friday night in
September, 1993, when she was carried to the ambulance on a stretcher. Her
James Dean poster hangs on one wall; her elementary school track ribbons
and collection of porcelain masks hangs on the others. Her bed is neatly
made and lined with stuffed animals -- typical of a girl who would visit
her sloppier friends and, without prompting, start vacuuming their rooms.
Katie died just a few weeks into her freshman year at the University
of Miami. At eighteen she was 5'5'' tall and had straight shoulder length
blond hair, big blue eyes, and pale clear skin. Her senior year in high
school, Katie was the varsity cheerleader captain and valedictorian.
More importantly, though, she was my best friend. After all, when
she was six years old, she had declared herself old enough to take care of
her little sister and brand new baby brother, because she thought our
mother was not sharing us enough with her. This caring attitude continued
throughout her life. Katie would always braid my hair, go shopping with
me, and let me go out with her and her friends when I was lonely and bored.
Katie would always tutor Kevin, who has a learning disability, when he
needed help with his homework. She would continually drill him on his
studies until he got it right. Afterwards, she would take him to go get
ice cream as a reward. Clearly, Katie was not just our older sister. She
was also our teacher, friend, and second mother.
Katie always surrounded herself with friends. She was constantly
opening her ears, heart, and arms to someone in need. The phone was
constantly ringing and her room was always crowded with people in it. Now,
my house is silent.
I realize that getting caught in a pool of depression only leads to
drowning. I live by looking for the positive in the worst situations. I
now have a relationship with my parents and brother that means everything
to me. I know what is important in life, and it is not always partying and
getting A's. But most of all, I know that I can handle anything. Life is
not easy, but I overcame one of its toughest obstacles.
I believe, the hardest part of death is the experiences it steals.
Katie will not be clapping for me when I finally get my college diploma or
giving me advice on my wedding day. My children will only hear stories of
the girlhood of their aunt, both stories of reality and an imagined future.
I close my eyes as tight as they can go.
A diploma is placed in my hand. "I do" echoes from a distance. Katie
says she loves me and hugs me tight on a September afternoon in 1993. Just
before I cross my high school auditorium stage, I look out at the
spectators in the bleachers, and I see mother and father and Kevin.
Katie is sitting right beside them, cheering me on.
