2010 Sobriety Rocks Winner – Best Writing
I Loved My Sister
by Erin Morris
Old pictures and random memorabilia that only I would value lay scattered on my sheets. I carefully put it all aside and sit down with a notebook and pen. It’s worth a try:
My Sister,
Dear Tami,
Tami,
I’m not sleeping well these days, even though I’m not getting up at three a.m. every Friday night anymore. But I’m more worried now than I was when you were still calling, needing a ride home from who knows where. There are people at our house. I don’t even know most of them, but they are all “so sorry” for me. And they all bring food. The house is filled with food. It looks like Thanksgiving…or something like that. I bet your graduation party would have looked like this…only no one laughs and no one is glad to be here. I’m not.
I would give almost anything just to get out, to escape all the sympathetic glances and the dark-colored clothing and the constant barrage of “Oh, you poor girl.” False! I am not poor! Just yesterday they were all probably whispering behind my back about my loud music and unusual clothing choices. Hypocrites. You should see them, Tami…but you would probably laugh and tell me that I’m too sensitive. You’d say they just love my style and wish they could pull it off. You always did see the best in people, always gave them the benefit of the doubt, even though they never gave you a chance. I wish I could be more like you.
I feel so silly, writing to you now, but Pastor Jack says it’s a good way to start. Start what, you may ask? The grieving process. I can’t tell you the frustration I feel when a counselor tries to “break through to me.” Talk about over-analyzing. And you thought I was bad.
But, Tami, the truth is…I am grieving. I’d never tell anyone that, but I guess they must already know. I miss you, Tami. A lot of people thought you were nothing more than a huge disappointment to Mom and Dad, a terrible role model for me, and a criminal. And the sad thing is, I can’t prove them wrong. There’s more than enough evidence to prove you guilty. Tami, you showed such promise…I don’t even know what went wrong. You were smart and pretty…you had the whole world at your fingertips.
So why did you drink Tami?! How stupid could you be? What was so bad about this world that you had to leave it behind every Friday night for a drunken stupor? Was it stress? Your friends? Mom and Dad? Me? Surely it wasn’t me…was it?
Ever since last summer when you started going to those parties I’ve received a weekly three a.m. wake up call because you were too smashed to make it home on your own. I hated you those nights. After half-dragging, half-carrying you to the car, I would open the driver’s side door only to see that you had puked all over the floor. And when the nights were humid, the stench would only intensify. I really hated you those nights. And let’s not forget the time I had to pick you up at the police station because you had been caught stealing beer. That night I almost didn’t show. I was so ashamed.
But that wasn’t you. I know who you really were Tami, but no one else does. And now you’re dead and they’ll never know. Pastor Jack asked me to say a few words this afternoon, but I don’t even know where to begin. Nobody knew you like I did. They never saw you teaching me how to ride my bike. They never saw your patience when I didn’t understand my math homework or your kindness when you fixed my hair for my first school dance. They never saw you stand up for me in the hallways or protect me as we walked home from basketball practice. Only I saw that. And I don’t know how to make them understand that...that I loved you Tami. You were the world to me. I wanted to be just like you…well, almost.
And now you’re gone and I’ll never get to tell you that. And you won’t be here to see me graduate high school and then college. You won’t be my maid of honor when I finally get married. There won’t be an Aunt Tami…You will never be a freshman starter or become a famous writer. You will never be a mother. You could have done all of that. Heck, Tami, I know you…you would have done all of that and more.
So, I guess I’m sorry, sorry that the people we know never knew the real you. And I’m sorry for the rest of the world because it will never see your smiling face or hear your contagious laugh.
I will make one last promise to you, and you better be listening because I mean this: I will tell the world your story and I will make them see my pain. Maybe through this final act, we can still change the world…together.
I promise,
Emma
I dried my tears and did my best to freshen up. The only good thing about funerals is no one expects you to look good. Pastor Jack spoke first, his low, smooth voice flowing over and around me, filling me with a strange peace. Then he motioned to me, and I slowly walked up the steps and stood behind the podium. Clenching the sides for all I was worth, I quietly began.
“I loved my sister…”