I simply walked down the street. The sidewalk, on which my tired, blistered feet stepped, was parched white from the salty air. My hands glided across the black as coal, rod-ironed fences. The street was bare, a few trees here and there, but mainly boring colored houses with too bright green yards with children playing with a ball in the front. The kind of street that you saw in movies, the picture perfect houses and families. Every family had the same colored hair, with two children, a dog and a cat. It’s pathetic I think. I turn up my driveway and twist around to see my pitiable street one last time.
“Honey, did you have a nice walk? The weather outside is lovely. I might go on a walk.” My mother thinks out loud. Just like always. Most times I think it’s funny, but never once have I smiled. I don’t smile in front of people. I don’t talk in front of people. Not since I saw my parents get murdered before my eyes, my real parents. The plump lady before me is not my genuine mother. She’s just my existing one. I sit down at the bar in our comfortable cottage. I look into the too-pink living room were the small TV sat blaring 11 News into every dusty and moldy corner of our small, simple house.
The unadorned kitchen was brown, way excessively brown. The 70’s style refrigerator hummed with muffled excitement. The fragrance of spaghetti caught my attention. I turned to see my mother making her famous sauce. And with that I hopped off the bar stool and walked in the little hallway separating the kitchen from the living room. After about fifteen paces forward I sharply turned left, where the stairs led up to a 3 bedroom and 2 bath upstairs. My arms straight down my sides and my fingers parallel with the rest of my arm, I imagined myself as those British army officers. The ones with the big hats and red jackets. I relaxed before I sprinted up five stairs, curved another left, and sprinted up an additional five steps. Now at the top of the stairs I revolve right on my heel. In front of me is a closed door.
You can still see the corners of pictures with the tape holding them down. I remember when you couldn’t even see the black door. I use to sit on the backboard that keeps you from falling onto the stairs and look at every picture, magazine cutout, and concert ticket. Every inch was covered, and the back was half way there. I don’t dare open the door of past memories. Mom can smell the very essence of someone in that room, so no one risks going in there. I extend a shaky, sallow hand towards the door. The calluses on my fingers barely brushing the paneling of the door. I stop, with my fingers gently resting on the gold, worn-out doorknob. The blood pulsating in my ears, I put my whole hand around the knob. My body starts to shake as I quietly turn it.
I wait for something, anything, a noise, something that would warn me of my mother’s being coming towards me. As the door slides open on its hinges a low moaning sound escapes through the wood. A smell of no other enters my dying nostrils, awakening them to life’s many pleasures. Just the scent, coming from the tiny crack I made from opening the door, makes me smile. The memories flood my mentality like a demolished dam. I listen quickly for my mom, but only humming drifts and twirls up the stairs, nothing else. I open the door further while the sound comes from the door again, just a little louder. I make a widening just big enough for my body to squeeze into. The room, oh the room, is better than I can fathom. The bed is still undone just like all the years before. The dresser is cluttered with magazines, makeup, perfume, and other necessities.
The floor is still packed with clothes. Just like the door, you can’t see the floor. I pick up the nearest shirt and raise it in front of me. Just a regular black v-neck. But it really wasn’t. I know for a fact this was her favorite one. When mom was teaching me to do laundry I accidently bleached this shirt. It almost looked tie-dye and my sister fell in love with it. Every time she wore it, that very morning she would give me such a hug that my breath fell short for some minutes. And as big tears roll down my painted cheeks I embrace the shirt to my chest. Vanilla musk (her favorite smell, she said “guys go crazy for it”) mocks me. Her shirt soaks in my cries so I drop it. Walking to the window seat I look out at the perfectly manicured lawns all around me.
I finger the beige, see-through curtains. I look around the room. The walls are painted a bright maroon. I remember sitting in the doorway watching my sister and mom paint this room. I walk over to a wall and move the Jason Mraz poster out of the way. On the wall are two handprints, a very tiny hand and a slightly larger one. The date is printed below the hands, September 11, 2000. I was in first grade, she in third. We put our hands here to remember the day our uncle died in the fall of the twin towers. I look over to the bed. Polka dot sheets with a navy blue comforter. She never liked to match, just to have it her way.
I kiss my hand and lay it on the pillow. May Elizabeth Johansson will be in my heart forever. That’s what the poster says right above the headboard on her bed. It was from her boyfriend. He has already moved on. “What a jerk,” I whispered to myself. My voice fell flat in the musty air of the room, which hasn’t been lived in since last year. That’s when my dear sister was taken away from me by a drunk driver. She was my only friend. And now that everyone knows and they see this “freak” walk down the halls I know I might never have a friend. May’s heart was so big that God couldn’t let it live.
The wind whispered
The names of the dead
And as I quietly listened
Her voice fills my head