Blame It On Paperbacks

Page 5

I stood nailed in front of Lizzie's tombstone. I miss my sister, even more now that I'm aware of my mother's gradual stretch to following her anytime. Don't take her with you yet, Lizzie. Please, don't. I whispered to her, hoping that somehow she hears me. It's cold outside with a thin strip scent of rusty metal and dust mixing with the air. I'm starting to not regret wearing my sweater and feeling its rough but subtle texture brushing against my arms.

Occasionally, I just sit in front of her. (I always assume that she's somewhere near her graveyard.) I speak to her whenever I'm starting to feel that nobody alive can travel and fill my holes. Today, I decided to summarize my lifespan from the last time I visited her until now which subsequently summed up to full 3 months. I reckoned all possible things she might want to know and declaimed them to her as if I'm updating my freshman diary in front of a jury. Jamie's a good friend to me though her limited years of being with us were composed of unlimited memories like backyard games that involved water guns and mud sculptures.

I'm missing her naturally bronzed hair. Her small nose that got hilly on the tip. Her denim jumpers and oversized flops because none had fitted her at that moment. Her sleepwalking and midnight stories that only her could ever produce and narrate excellently. She informed me how being 5-year old was when I couldn't remember how being one before. Maybe if she were here, it will be much more different. Her death affected everyone like some stubborn colds that won't ever go away. We found it hard to breathe for the first 2 years.

"You know what, I found my favorite font. It's Times New Roman. Don't ask why. It's beautiful, a standard, and it gets even more pleasant in the eyes when it's italicized," I told her. "Remember when we both wanted Copper Black and you did not want to share the common interest with me so I just tried to find something else to favorite?" I continued. God, I don't even know why I'm talking about computer fonts with my forever 5-year old sister. I bet she's in deep confusion right now why I'm babbling silly here. Or maybe she knows what I really want to talk about. I'm not sure. I'm curious whether we get special abilities like reading minds of the living when we we're up with the clouds as angels. When I visit her, I couldn't help but think about future and heavenward possibilities.

"I do not know why cemeteries are soooooooooo darn quieeeeeeeeeeeet!"

A male voice screeched from someplace nearby. It was stumbling and amusing. I winced in front of my sister and then turned left where I hypothetically believed the voice came from. I thought I am the only one who had an unusual free time on Wednesday to pay a visit but then there he is. A moderate amount of soil had been dislodged from the back portion of my skirt as I patted them off when I stood up. I cleaned my hands next and then looked at him for the second time. He's not looking back. Instead, he's playing solitaire. He is using a tomb slot as deck board.

"Seriously?" I was even stunned that I blurted a word to this stranger.

"Seriously what?" He asked without lifting this head to look at me.

"You're seriously illegal," I answered.

"You're purely government."

"Excuse me?" I took few steps to advance my departure. This untraditional guy looks like a man from 80's Hollywood icons due to his yellow sex pistols plaid jeans paired with a black shirt that had a skull printed on. The fashion got even worse with him on aviators and a navy blue fedora. I can't help but to call God and ask for him to descend and tell me that this guy is possible and real.

"You're distracting me. Mind your own mourning," he said. He had completed his first column. His voice sounds like an 18-year old lad but his appearance tells a different story.

"Oh. Well, to tell you honestly, I was operating my own business some time ago until you yelled and violated the peace of this place," I irritatingly replied.