• Sitting in my sister’s room, I feel a wave of depression engulf me. I lie back onto her bed and start to cry. Today was her funeral. I roll over to face the wall and see Elle the Elephant, her favorite stuffed animal. I cling to it like it was the last life boat on the Titanic. I cry into its faded pink fur and smell my sister’s scent; clean, with a faint aroma of flowers. My baby sister -- taken by God! I want to scream that it’s too soon and that it should’ve been me. I hug Elle tighter and sob.

    “Don’t Cry”
    Seeing her face
    Twisted with tears and pain
    “I’m right here,” I tell her.
    She doesn’t hear
    I scream louder
    No response
    I’m dead

    I wake up the next morning, tired and lonely. I notice that the pillow is damp beneath me: I cried myself to sleep again. It’s been two weeks and I still cry every night. I manage to crawl out of bed and get dressed. I walk down stairs into the kitchen. Mom and Dad are sitting at the table, lifeless. They took her death really hard. Then again, so did I. We nod at each other as I walk to the cabinet. I grab an energy bar from the box and stuff it into my pocket. I say “good-bye” and walk out of the house. It’s drizzling a little, but I don’t care. I haven’t cared about a lot of things since she died.

    “I’m Here”
    “Wait for me,” I yell.
    Flying down the steps
    She doesn’t turn
    I walk next to her
    Trying to hold her hand
    Mine goes right through
    I follow her to school
    She doesn’t talk or laugh
    Doesn’t even try
    “I’m here,” I say
    I’m here

    I get to class and sit down. I haven’t been interested in school since her death. I only go because she’d want me to. I take out my notebook and start to doodle. Half way through class, the doodle has grown into a picture; she and I are walking alongside the creek by our house, holding hands. I excuse myself from class and go to the bathroom. As soon as the door shuts, I break down. Sobbing and shaking into a corner, I slide down the wall and curl up with my head on my knees. My arms hug my legs in an attempt to disappear. I sit like that for a long time. Just then, the door opens; my English teacher walks in. She comes over to me and sits down. She asks if I’m okay. Obviously I’m not but I say that I am anyway. She strokes my hair and holds me close. We sit like that for a while, not needing words. A few minutes later, she gets up and extends her hand to me. I look up and take it. She pulls me up and I wipe my eyes. She smiles at me and leads me out of the bathroom. The halls are quiet and dim. She leads me to the school psychologist’s office and knocks. The psychologist opens the door and we enter.

    “Please Help Her”
    I smile
    She’s getting help!
    I follow her and listen
    Listen to the man talking to her
    She nods
    But she’s not really there
    I hope it will help

    I kind of brushed off the psychologist’s words and went back into my hole of self-pity. After school, I walk home. It’s still raining. I slow down and watch the rain. She always loved running in the rain. I sigh and reach up to wipe a tear from my eyes, but I can feel it being wiped away. I jump back, terrified of the contact. I touch my cheek; it was a little warmer. I start to think of a logical explanation. I tell myself that it’s just my imagination and that the rain washed it away. I start to walk again, this time listening more carefully.

    I see her cry again
    I float towards her
    Ready to help
    I muster all of my strength
    And wipe away her tear.
    She jumps back
    So do I
    She starts to walk
    I follow

    I get to my house and take out my keys. Mom and Dad started working more to get their minds off of the accident so they’re not home. I go to my room and sit down on my bed. Getting out my laptop, I start to work on my homework. The only reason I try anymore is for her.
    After a while, I finish and put my laptop back. I’m not hungry so I don’t eat. (Who would’ve thought?) I change into sweats and crawl into bed. Falling asleep, I realize that I start to cry.
    My dreams, or should I say nightmares, have revolved around her death. It always starts in the morning, with my sister jumping on my bed to wake me up. She laughs and hugs me awake. I grumble a little and hug her back. We get up and race downstairs to Mom’s World Famous Breakfast. Every Sunday, she’d make blueberry and strawberry pancakes with bacon and sausages. We’d gobble it up like it was our last meal. After we eat, we go out towards the creek. She’d go sit on this rock in the middle and dip her feet in the water. The fruit trees were blooming and the blooms were falling off and drifting into the water. She spots a frog on a rock a few feet away. I watch her jump off the rock and into the shallow water. I yelled for her to stop, but she wouldn’t hear me. On contact with the uneven creek bottom, she slips and falls. I run to her, scared and worried. I carefully make my way toward her. No matter how many times I dream this, I will never “get used” to her death. Even though she looks peaceful, blood is trickling from the back of head making the creek slightly red in color. I lift her head out of the water and set it on my lap. I start to cry and a tear hits her soft cheek.

    I see her
    But wanting to wake up.
    I want to help
    I’m in her dream!
    “It’s okay,” I say
    She looks up
    “It’s not your fault”
    She cries harder
    Reaching out to me
    I take her hand
    She wakes up
    I smile
    I bolt up in bed, shocked at my dream. It had to be her! There’s no other logical explanation that I want to believe. The tear must’ve been her too! I start to cry, not from sadness, but from joy.

    It’s been four years since my sister’s death. I met with the school psychologist for a good year and a half, figuring out my issues and learning to forgive myself of the guilt. I made a few friends from this group session the psychologist put me in. I feel better about life and will try to live it, like she would’ve done.

    I can feel myself disappearing
    Dying again
    She’s moved on
    So should I