Repressed, or possibly suppressed.
Either way, my memories are absent in the years surrounding your absence.
Fuzzy. Faded. I am sure I lived more than I have before the age of ten years old.
I do have some vivid snapshots; but then I realize they are not really real, but a figment of an overactive imagination. (I guess this is better than an overactive bladder. Everyone seems to have one nowadays based on the sheer number of commercials on TV.)
I remember our plane going upside down on our way to England when I was four. I see myself–smiling–hair hanging straight down in mid-air, like icicles on the edge of a roof.
What in the world?
I should have known this was an imaginary scene since no one mentioned this frightening episode in all these years. (Big Sis laughed hysterically when I mentioned this memory–yes, I should have known it was fictitious!)
I imagine my memories are in hiding–waiting to come out and be known.
Come out come out wherever you are.
I guess this is why the sole picture of you is so important to me. It is significant to have details of your life. Because if I remember you, even the slightest detail, there is most likely a chance I may bring back some memories of myself from the dead.
Figure out where my carbon footprint has been.
A carbon footprint is the measure of the environmental impact of a particular individual or organization’s lifestyle or operation, measured in units of carbon dioxide.
Of course I had to look this up (And chose the child-friendly definition). When I homeschooled my girls, we often bypassed science for Starbucks. Yes, my children will attest this as truth and they’ll complain that they missed out on precious education–but I don’t see too many frowns when I purchase their cappuccinos.
We take in oxygen. We give out carbon dioxide.
We, as humans, leave a certain amount of impact on the environment.
I saw a small plant coming alive through the concrete.
Plants give off oxygen and take in carbon dioxide.
Like a paradigm shift of the science variety.
Has me thinking–maybe if I breathe oxygen into your existence–a paradigm shift will bring the buried memories to the surface.
So, I wrote you a letter of all the data I have in my mind of you.
Your initials were different. Big Sis and I are, JLB, and you were TMB. Could they not find a good name for you that begins with the same letters so you would not be an outcast in the sibling department?
I guess they could, since Little Bro was named JLB just three short years after you left us.
Over the years, I have had difficulty saying your name–Tanya. One of my closest friends can attest to this. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember her name. Weird, since I have no other friends of family with your name and it is not that difficult to pronounce.
Your face is fuzzy to me. Probably because the pic looks as if you have peach fuzz covering your features.
Why did you leave us this way?
I am sorry, but I don’t think I attended your funeral. Maybe I did. I just do not remember.
I’ve forgotten you. Laying there all alone in the ground. We put a tombstone as a remembrance years after your death. Before that, there was only a small marker marking your short-lived life here on earth.
Still, I do not visit. I am sorry. I wish I were a better sister. I wish you didn’t have to leave.
Did we share the room with the blue-floral-hideous curtains? I was six, for heaven’s sake, I know I should know these things.
One time I wrote about you, but it was too painful. So I omitted you from the book.
I imagine us being close. I would have loved you had you stayed.
We were never the same since your absence. Mom was sad for a long, long time. Sometimes it was hard for her to leave the house.
Dad had difficulty too, I am sure of it. He was angry at someone or something. To this day, there is an undercurrent of irritation underneath his skin.
I wish I could say more to you–but, this is all I’ve got.
Until we meet again, so I do not risk forgetting you completely, know that I am going to get a copy of the one picture of your short existence and frame it. I think I’ll put it next to Grandma and Grandpa. They are probably right next to you, aren’t they? Grandma with those loving arms holding you close.
You will arrive at the Big 40 this year. Six days before my 46th. I know– I’m getting old. Big Sis turns 50 this year. Maybe we can have an honorary celebration in your honor. Maybe on September 5th.
Last year, for the first time since September 11th, 2001, I celebrated my birthday. Before that, I despised the idea of celebrating myself, then this unlikely tragedy happens to occur this day, of all days, seemed a good excuse to extinguish the flickering candles and birthday cake all together.
Well, no more. I will celebrate me from now on. (I am sure you know what happened that day. You are most likely quite close to many of those fallen heroes.)
Big Sis clarifies my writing. I did indeed attend your funeral. I shared a room with her, not you–the room with the hideous blood-red carpet.
We purchased this headstone for you so you will be etched in stone in our memories forever.
Whether my mind ever remembers, you are forever planted in my heart.
Rest in peace, Little Sis.