I Lost Her and I Lost Myself As Well

Moira was always the one who kept me going.
When Liz broke up with me that summer of Fifth grade with a text message saying, “im teribly sorry 4 your lost. I was such a good gurlfriend” , I immediately went over to Moira and cried my heart out.
When I was finally ready to accept that Liz was nothing but a dumb pretty face because apparently it was so obvious to everyone but me, I asked Moira to teach me how to move on and she gave me the largest tub of Ben and Jerry’s she could find.
When I was terribly in need of a guy friend because I felt the urges coming, Moira told me to have a regular stock of baby oil and tissue on my bottom drawer while she listed the sites I apparently needed.
Moira has always been there for me, no matter how far she got away when she went to College. No matter how busy she’s been with her academics, and with her three boyfriends.
So when I tried calling her one night, distraught and full of anxiety for unknown reasons and she never answered, I just knew my sister won’t ever be there for me anymore. And I didn’t know how to keep going.

Her casket was closed when it arrived home.
I wanted to see her; I wanted to see my sister because no matter how much I try to wrap my head around the fact that she’s really gone, I just couldn’t. I think I couldn’t because I wouldn’t.
Mother said it would just haunt me forever, seeing her lifeless instead of the Moira who was always so full of life. I said it wouldn’t, and that I just needed to see her. I need to, I shouted, and my mother broke down in a heap.
My father came over, held my mother while shaking his head at me. I knew my family was hurting, but I loved my sister the most, I needed her the most, and no one would understand it. I felt so alone then. I needed Moira.
When nighttime fell and everyone was asleep, I tiptoed towards her and opened the lid, and screamed at the sight in front of me.
Her face was battered beyond recognition, her limbs detached from her small body, held by black ribbons to hide the evidence of amputation. She was all patches of black and blue, her blue blue eyes clouded with lifelessness. This wasn’t my sister! I need my sister!
I screamed and screamed, even when people surrounded me. Even when my mother hugged me, racked with terrible grief, I still screamed. I screamed at the monster claiming to be my sister. I screamed at the shadow rising from her lifeless body. And I screamed when it smiled at me.

Posthumous Ramblings

Romanticizing the dead wouldn’t make much of a difference. You could shower adulations of various sorts but it would only hang in midair. You were there when she was alive; you were there, secretly cursing her, envying her, but you never once opened your mouth to tell her the things you are telling her body now. “She has so much in her”, “Her future was all everyone¬† envisioned theirs to be”, “It’s unfortunate to lose such a brilliant person.” Your empty praises. . . What good would it do? Would she rise from the dead to hug and thank you? What good would it do aside from making you feel less pathetic? What good would it do her? And I guess until her death, you were only thinking of yourself, of how to make you feel better once you’ve known of her demise. But then again it could be that for once you’re thinking of others. Because your every praise goes acknowledged by her family members, and you might not intend to do so but it unburdens their grief little by little with your every lame praise. I give you that. For once, even if it was posthumous, you’re giving her something she might have wanted, needed to live for. And that something would ensure that her family would live on.