Kids A winning story from the RTÉ Guide/ Puffin Young People’s Short Story Competition 2018
My mother didn’t like the ache that filled her heart every time she passed by the only pink door in our house
When a loved one dies, music begins to taste different and all food sounds the same. You find yourself creeping instead of walking, whispering instead of talking and before you know it anything that involves doing something you would have done with them seems impossible now.
The weeks that followed the death of my sister were empty and meaningless. Minutes drifted into hours which melted into days and before I knew it, I hadn’t been living for two weeks. My body felt distant from my mind, like I had gotten up and walked into a land so foreign I no longer knew how my body worked.
Day seven sans my heart led me to my sister’s bedroom. The room was cold and airy and I felt that if she were anywhere, she would be here. My mother wanted to empty her room, she said it would be a good way for us all to try and live a semblance of a normal life but I knew that wasn’t true. My mother didn’t like the ache that filled her heart every time she passed by the only pink door in our house, she didn’t like to feel that pain that we knew would never truly go away, but I did. The second I stepped into that room the overwhelming sensation of nostalgia engulfed my senses and I had to sit down lest I pass out. Her room embodied who she was and it was the only part of her I had left. Every possession held a memory that I clung on to so tightly I could often feel the physical strain on my brain. The closets were full of ghosts and I was controlled by her possessions. Every day, all day, I listened to songs, watched movies and read books that I knew were a part of her. Sometimes I felt like she did it on purpose; she left parts of herself in different places in every aspect of life so I would never have to be alone.
That particular day found me fingering a princess tiara that had one too many of the diamonds missing from the top and the mere sight of it brought a smile and tears to my eyes. The tiara felt much too light in my hands, too light for something that possessed so much power over me. I closed my eyes and let my mind take me back to a time when the tiara had been just that, a tiara.
She was two years old and words were no longer a foreign language she had to decipher. It was our annual trip to the city and nothing brought more joy to my sister’s face than the thought of family time, I however had already begun to miss the peace and serenity the four walls of my bedroom offered me.
“Twinkle twinkle little star how I wonder what you are” my sister sang incessantly, bopping her head from side to side, while I refrained from covering my ears with my hands and letting out screeching noises of my own. I leaned towards the driver seat and whistled lowly to get my father’s attention. “Can’t you make it stop?” I whispered pleadingly. My mother, who had been listening, turned around and fixed me with a glare that was neither kind nor threatening. “Let her be a child Melinda” she said firmly, though she managed to sound wistful at the same time, “while she still gets to be one.”
I spent the entirety of my day playing babysitter and being lugged from shop to shop by an unusually strong two-year old. I heaved a heavy sigh and bent down to pick her up when she began saying she was tired. I started walking towards the restaurants, determined to soothe the grizzly that had awakened in my stomach and was gaining a lot of attention from fellow shoppers, but a loud screech from the small person in my arms forced me to stop. My sister was staring at a shop window with an expression that could only be described as complete and utter awe. Her tiny mouth hung open and she pointed toward the window full of gaudy looking diamonds. She gasped and held her breath, not wanting to scream any more. “I need one Mellie, pretty please with every single cherry in the world on top,” she pleaded, her eyes bigger and more innocent than a doe. I don’t know why I decided to succumb to the tiny human in front of me, maybe it was because I was so hungry. I no longer had any fight left in me or maybe it was the way she looked at me, as if I had the power to deliver her all the happiness she would ever need. Whatever it was, I’m glad I did it because the second she put on that tiara her whole face lit up and no one would be able to tell you she didn’t look like a princess. I admired the way she could find joy in the simplest of things and for the rest of that day I didn’t mind the fact that I had been forced to carry around my little sister all day.
There are some moments that last forever: we replay them over and over again relishing the feeling experienced from those brief and fleeting, but oh so glorious few moments.
As I lay the tiara back down on the desk, I was reminded that there would never be a day I wouldn’t feel this ache inside and a tear fell down, one of the countless tears I had cried in the past few weeks. It dropped slowly onto the tiara, clinging to it for dear life, and I knew there was a metaphor in there somewhere.