Its been a year now.
A year since I heard her soft voice call my name, saw her secretly smile when she thought no-one was looking, held her hand in mine. I'm back at our local cemetery, standing before her grave. The pale white marble radiates against the wet, black grass. The darkening sky makes everything here seem just that much more cold, and blind. Coughs and sniffles can be heard from the town gathered behind me; I can see their shadows flickering in the dimming light.
Everyone holds a candle tonight.
My mother stands between me and the growing crowd. I can almost feel her overwhelming compulsion to close the distance separating us and swallow me up in her embrace. I almost wish she would. I try desperately to keep a calm face, to build steel behind my eyes, but the shameful tears still find a way to disgrace my stature. I inwardly curse myself for my lack of control over my emotions. During this mental battle of supremacy, my audience remains silent. Their sympathy is well-known to me and i welcome it. It is times like this when i know that one can count on this tiny community to be there, ready to catch you if you fall, to fight by your side or simply advise you on which path to take.
Our community is special like that; its unique. We have such an unbreakable bond that I am sure will stay strong, even after death. I can feel it.
That is why I believe that Sophia is still here among us all, in our hearts, in our words, and in everything we do.
I remember how easily she made everyone feel like their lives were as perfect as hers always appeared to be. I think they respected her for that. In fact, I know they respected her, and admired her bravery to keep on, through what would eventually take away her smile, take away her words, and even take away her ability to keep us resilient through the worst.
Who will keep us from crumbling now?
The reverand's voice breaks through the memories, shattering them into millions of pieces, letting them fall, out of reach, and into the black abyss, far back into my mind. I grasp at the shards that tumble into the unexplore depths of my consciousness, but my hands only clutch at the empty air in front of me. A few sharp intakes of breath forces me to open my eyes. I can't look at them. I turn my head to the side, and the reverand acknowledges this as a signal to proceed.
"She was a bright young girl; a park to light the fire in our hearts. Many of us remember her as the one who always knew what to say, when to say it and what it meant to the world. And i believe that I am not alone in saying that this community will deeply feel the loss of such a life granted to us from the Lord above..."
His voice slowly fades away with the light. I know I should listen, but I can't bring myself to hear the words once more. After a year, you would have thought the pain lessens, just slightly, but alas, the opposite has just the effect.
I resist the urge to just turn and run away, away from everything and everyone. Away from the pain in their faces when they see me, because when they look at me, all they see is her, and how she isn't here anymore.
I can't blame them, not really. It's not their fault she's dead. It's mine. It's not their fault no-one could save her. It's mine. They're only doing what feels natural to them; the sad looks and soothing words; the hugs and good food - its like a tradition of sorts, and automatic routine.
I hated traditions. They were too predictable. That's what i loved about my sister, the other half to our whole. No-one knew what she would do next. That's what made her special.
Now it's just me, a lonely half, with no-one to make me whole again.
Now it's just me, and my family, and our community.
Now it's just me.
