When I was six I had a dream. There was a little girl, pigtails in her hair and the bluest eyes I had ever seen. She was swinging on a tire swing in what could only be my backyard. I had no idea who she was, but she seemed to know me. There was a smile on her face when she saw me. She never said anything and neither did I. She sat on the swing and I pushed her as she passed by.

The first time I met the girl from my dream was a year later. My parents had just arrived home from the hospital. In their arms they held my little sister. She was smaller and her hair was only just beginning to grow, but her eyes were still the same shade of blue. My parents told me her name was Kylie. She was beautiful.

Her smile pulled people in and her eyes tethered them to her. When walking she could hardly go two steps without looking back to make sure I followed. But when once there was a bounce to her step there was now a slower sort of glide. Tiredness overtook her and carried her further and further out of reach. Little by little her smile fell though I did my best to bring it back.

My parents told me she was sick. I didn’t understand. I was the older brother, her stalwart protector. I kept her safe from anyone who would try to hurt her but it was a battle I could not fight. I didn’t understand…

When it was time, and I had to say goodbye, the words never came. I just sat there for so long that her hand grew cold in mine.

After that day I could only remember bits and pieces. We laid my sister to rest in the local cemetery, and it was just a small gathering of family and friends. Everyone was wearing black and crying. Deep hiccupping sobs from my mother and silent tears from my father. I didn’t want to cry, I wanted to yell until my voice broke and punch something until my hands bled. I felt weak.

In the days following her funeral, I often found myself walking passed or simply standing outside the door to my sister’s room. Nothing in the room had changed and it hurt to realize that nothing ever would.

I keep a photograph of my sister under my pillow. It was taken while we were at the beach and in it she is holding out a sand covered hand with a sea shell in the middle of her palm, a shy smile on her face. It makes me both happy and sad whenever I look at it.

I know that my mother has a small lock of blond hair, tied with a soft blue ribbon, hidden away in a plain little wooden box at the very back of her jewelry box.

I know my mother never looks at it.

I also know that my father sometimes does.

The first time I ever laid eyes on my sister was in a dream. And now, in my dreams she will have to stay. But I figure there are ways for her to be remembered outside of sleep as well. I have always believed that the person a writer loves will live forever. And this holds true more now than ever.

Kylie loved to have stories read to her so I decided the best way to preserve my sister’s memory would be with ink and paper. I could endeavor to make a mark as everlasting as the one she made on my heart. I could give a happy ending to a story that had only just begun. I picked up a pencil and started writing.

When I was six…