A Few Moments Apart by Anushka Maity (16, India)

[Content warning: death]

Is today a good day to die? 

I ask myself this question every morning after getting up from bed and every night before retreating under my comforter and falling into a disturbed slumber. I am asking myself this now as I sit at the supper table passing the green beans. My brain is tired of this question but it still won’t shut off due to all there is to think about and I can’t take the chaos anymore. 

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Where is she? Is she at peace? Is she still looking over me? Is it all silent there? Does she hate it as I do? The silence in the room feels like a betrayal to the memory of the person who had splashed our lives with vibrant hues and tinkles of laughter, but the happiness had been ephemeral; now we were covered in cuts and the colours were slowly seeping out.  I put my spoon down and look up, taking a deep breath. No noise at all. Everyone is silent. My family, or what is left of it, is seated around the table; my father eating methodically from his plate with his head bowed down, my mother with her eyes trained on her steak, cutting it with great care; I refuse to let my eyes drift over to the last empty chair across the table, the same chair where Jessica used to sit everyday and laugh with me at our parents’ stupid jokes, but my brain doesn’t have a heart, my heart doesn’t have a brain and the two of them refuse to work together; so I look across the table and stare at the unoccupied chair until my eyes glaze over and the memories come rushing back. 

It was a chilly December evening and unusually dark even with the streetlights on as we drove back from the party I had insisted on going to. Jessica squinted into the distance as she turned a corner and then looked over at me to check whether I had my seatbelt on. She was like that, always making sure that I was safe; sometimes it felt like she was more of a mother to me than my CEO, too-busy-for-my-own-daughters biological mother had ever been. Jessica wasn’t that much older than me, only a difference of two years, but looking at her you would never have guessed that she was only seventeen. She was gorgeous, carried herself with confidence and was the perfect elder daughter, but she made these small exceptions to make me happy, like taking me to Parker’s early Christmas Party. It was snowing and ‘Attention’ blasted from the car speakers as we sang along at the top of our voice with goofy grins on our faces. Suddenly, there was a forceful jerk and the car skidded to the right, as Jessica lost control, before hitting a tree. There was the distinct noise of glass shattering and a blood curdling scream echoed from somewhere before it all went black. 

It all comes back, the smiles, the hugs, the laughter, the fights, the anger, the love, but she never does. I still get up every morning and brush my teeth, put on my clothes and do my hair, but there’s no blue ribbon tying my braids together; in its place a plain yellow rubber band; I go downstairs and have breakfast, but there are no pancakes dripping with maple syrup, only stale bread and cheese. I had simply not learnt how to tie a ribbon into a dainty bow and my mom hadn’t learnt how to make my favourite breakfast; after all, Jessica was there. We all feel the absence of her presence, but I crave to feel the existence of her presence. I make myself remember the feel of her loving touch, the caring brush of her lips against my forehead, her warm hugs engulfing me like a fuzzy, cashmere cardigan on those tearful days; I remember the sound of her giggles when I tickled her mercilessly, the number of sugar cubes she took her coffee with, the sweet fragrance of her strawberry shampoo and jasmine cologne.  I remember standing beside the coffin telling myself that it was not a farewell, it was a ‘see-you-soon’. She is not dead, she is not nowhere, she just found that other world, where we would be friends again, we would be sisters again and I smile faintly feeling it in my gut that there would surely be a next time.