I Remember

1988 

I think my first memory of you is from when we were six. Do you remember that day when we laid in your backyard for hours and watched the clouds pass us by? You could see so much that I couldn’t�"rabbits, trees, snakes, houses. I remember when you said you could see a train full of people waving. I had scoffed at it, but I was secretly impressed - impressed and jealous. It amazed me how much you could see, while I was so blind. I guess that was always the difference between you and me - you could see everything, and I was about as stubborn as they came. I’m glad you were there that day. You showed me what it was like to have an imagination. Do you remember when you pointed out the cloud shaped like a hand and tried to get me to see it? Well, I did see it. Even though I said I didn’t, I did. I was just too stubborn to admit that you were right.  

1991 

Do you remember the year we joined Little League? I think we were nine. Your mom signed you up for it in the fall and had convinced mine to do the same. Out of all the games we played, there was always one that I could never get out of my mind. It was about halfway through the season and we were playing the Yankees. Their pitcher was the fastest we’d ever seen, and everyone on our team was afraid to bat against him. Except you. You weren’t one to let things like that scare you. After countless strikeouts from our team, you were up to bat. I remember it so clearly. You took one look at me, smiled, and turned into the batters box. You held your bat confidently and hit the ball farther than anyone had done all year. The left fielder missed it and you got a home run. When you got back to the bench, out of breath, I asked you, “How did you do that?” You only grinned, briefly patted my back, and said, "Your turn." That was the game I got my first hit. I guess your confidence rubbed off on me. You had a habit of doing that, even back then. 

 

1992 

I remember your tenth birthday, the day we felt so invincible. You’d decided not to have a birthday party, but instead you had a camp-out in your backyard with me. I never admitted it, but I felt honored. We made a banner to put across your tent - “Caleb and Emily’s fort. NO ADULTS ALLOWED”- and painted it in your favourite colour, blue. We were quite pleased with ourselves. After we had hung up the banner, you brought out your flashlights and we told ghost stories and made shadow puppets until midnight. After we had finished another round of giggles, you turned to me with wide, innocent eyes, and asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” People had been asking me that my whole life. Parents, teachers, family, friends, but somehow it was different when you asked me. I couldn’t place my finger on why, but it was. “A veterinarian,” I replied with confidence. I had expected you to get excited - being a veterinarian seemed like a big deal back then. Instead you said, “I want to be the president.” I scoffed and said, “That’s not going to happen." I'm sorry about that, by the way, that was terrible of me. You looked at me with a tight jaw, and in a cold voice you said, “And what makes you think you’re going to be a veterinarian?” You then rolled over in your sleeping bag and we didn’t speak for the rest of the night. I always felt bad for laughing, but I had too much pride to tell you.  

 

1994 

When I was twelve, my dad died. I don’t have to ask you if you remember this, I know you do. It had happened so suddenly, a fast car crash, a faster death. It was the day of my dad’s funeral, before the service had begun and we were sitting outside. You were sporting your over-sized black suit, and I was wearing a rather plain black dress. You were holding my hand as I sobbed into your shoulder. “I can’t do this,” I had said through my tears. “I can’t go through my life without my dad.” For a while you were silent as I cried, then, quietly, you said, “You can. I’ll be there.” I stopped crying long enough to look at you. “Do you promise?” I had asked, trying my best to hold it together. I really was a mess. “I do.” With that promise, my tears ceased. In fact, I didn’t cry through the entire ceremony. I’d like to let you know that I’ve been holding you to those words, I only wish you had kept them.  

 

1999 

You were seventeen when you began to get the headaches. I remember we went out to a movie one night, I brought m&m’s and you brought Tylenol. We couldn’t have been halfway through the movie when you started to cough. You coughed for so long that the people beside us were starting to give us dirty looks. "Are you-" Before I had a chance to finish, you were out of your seat, pushing past people and rushing down the stairs. I got up as well, much slower than you had, and followed you out of the theatre doors. When I found you, you were huddled over a garbage can, puking your guts out. One of the workers was at your side, asking you if you were all right. You didn’t answer her. I’m not sure if it was because you were too busy throwing up, or because you just didn’t know. You didn’t answer me when I asked you either.  

 

1999 

A couple of days after the movie theatre incident, long hours filled with extreme nausea and headaches, your mom took you to the hospital. I remember feeling so worried about you that I asked if I could tag along. To this day, I wish I hadn’t. We were at the hospital for what felt like an eternity until, finally, the doctor asked to speak to your mother and me privately. In a gentle, calm voice, a voice that only a doctor could have, she explained that you were diagnosed with brain cancer. A primary brain tumor. I didn’t know what that meant at the time, only that it was far from good. The doctor said there was a surgery available for your type, to prolong your life. “How long?” your mother had asked in a shaky voice. I took hold of her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “A year, maybe two. It’s hard to determine at this stage.” And with those words, my world was flipped upside down, turned inside out, and shaken. I’d never told you this, but you were practically my everything.  

2000 

Surely you remember graduation night. You had been sick all week; the cancer was really getting to you. Not many people thought you would show up, but they didn’t know you like I did. I waited for the longest time outside of the auditorium, and after a while even I was beginning to second-guess whether you would show up. But then, there you were, walking towards me in a striking black gown that matched my own. You looked like you were about to say something, but instead, you leaned over and began one of your coughing fits. I rubbed your back until it was over. By then, all sorts of people were swarming around us, asking if you were okay. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” you had said through coughs. When you had settled down and everyone had drifted back inside, you pulled me into a tight hug. I was surprised by how much strength you had when you looked so weak. “Thank you,” you whispered. I didn’t say anything, but I did smile. I know you couldn’t see it, but it was there. Later that night, when you walked across the stage to get your diploma, I cried. Last year I didn’t think we would be graduating together, but you were standing on that stage, proving me wrong. I never got a chance to tell you, but I’ve never been prouder. 

2000 

Graduation night was easily one of the best nights of my life. You were too sick to go camping with the other people from our graduating class like we had planned, so I set up a tent in your backyard. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the expression on your face when you walked outside and saw it. It was priceless. I made us a fire and we sat around it in lawn chairs, roasting marshmallows. We were both quiet for a long time, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, it never was with us. It took me a while to work up the courage to ask you what I asked you next. About the time it took me to roast three marshmallows. “Are you scared?” You looked at me with a puzzled expression on your face. Perhaps I had caught you off-guard, or maybe you just weren’t completely sure. “Why are you asking me this?” you said in a hoarse voice, I could hardly hear you over the crackle of the fire. “Because,” I paused, summoning more courage, “I am.” I felt exposed; I didn’t usually let my guard down like that. “Emily, come here.” I set down my roasting stick and walked around the fire pit to your chair. You smiled sadly at me and took my hand in yours. “Let me show you something.” You got up from your chair slowly and took a seat on the grass, pulling me down with you. We lay in the grass side by side, surrounded by night’s peaceful silence. You pointed into the sky. It was beautiful that night; the sky was filled with stars. Billions and billions of stars from places we could never begin to imagine. But they weren’t what you were pointing to. My eyes followed your frail fingers until I noticed the cloud. “What does that look like?” you asked. I stared at it thoughtfully before I answered. “A ship.” You smiled and closed your eyes. I wasn’t sure why you had asked me that, but I closed my eyes too. We both fell asleep on the warm summer grass. 

2001 

Last year, while you were in my room, you fainted. When you didn’t get up, I called 911. You wouldn’t remember this. Helplessly, I watched as you were loaded into an ambulance and taken to the nearest hospital. I was in complete shock, it was hard to stop shaking and crying long enough to tell my mom what had happened. Since I was too much of a wreck to drive myself, my mom drove me. You were in the ICU, and you still hadn’t woken up. I had rushed to your side immediately and grasped your hand in mine, willing you to open your eyes. You never did. A nurse came into your room to check on you. “How long?” I asked brokenly. She looked at me with a sad expression. “His organs are failing him, there isn’t much we can do.” That wasn’t a good enough answer for me. “How long?” I repeated. “It could be hours, it could be minutes.” I nodded at her, and turned my attention back to you. Luckily, it was hours. Hours that I filled by talking to you, holding your hand, and brushing the hair out of your eyes. Your mom was there, too, of course. She held your other hand, and we shared memories back and forth. At 9:56, your heart failed. In one instant you were there, and in the next you were gone. Although your body was on the hospital bed, I knew you weren’t really there. 

2002 

Today I laid white lilies on your grave. I usually bring you white lilies because I like what they represent; beauty, peace, and innocence. You're lying in a beautiful spot, next to a tree to shade you during the hot months of summers to come. You have two neighbours - one of a young boy, younger than even you were, and one of an elderly woman. Sometimes I bring them flowers, but never white lilies. I reserve those for you.

Author's Note

The memories are when the event occurred, sorry if that's a tad confusing.

Reviews

[...]

This is wonderful, the set up of it. Yes I agree it was sad. Well written.

[compositionc]

That was sad, and beautiful, and amazing. Just wowzah.
Each year brings a new event, each of which are written perfectly.