Remember December is an anthology of five writings that range from chicklit, poetry, teen fiction, and fan fiction all revolving around the theme: memory.
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PART I
"This is your sister's last wish, Emily," Mrs. Roberta Green said to her youngest daughter while handing her a folded document filled with words that Emily ignored.
Roberta's voice boomed through the lushy living room, the other sounds that were usually heard at that time of the day seemed to have vanished to Emily's ears. No vibrate red cardinal chirping, no footsteps from Sarah, the adorable woman who had helped with the house chores for years.
Emily's throat closed. As if it was under the pressure of an invisible force. The mention of her elder sister felt foreign and disturbing. Time did that. The past she'd ignored and the memories she'd put away to avoid any reference about Jane pushed through. Present and kicking in.
Jane was dead.
How was it even possible? How was it possible for Emily to feel affected about it? They haven't talked to in more than fifteen years. How was it possible Emily could miss Jane's cheeky gaze while they stole a whole batch of homemade cookies, yet on the other side, she wasn't able to remember her voice?
"Take the letter, Emily."
She complied, her pale hand reached out and unfolded the letter.
It was typed. Impersonal and formal. Mostly directed to their parents. The last paragraph, though, read:
To my young and only sister, I leave my home and everything that comes with it.
I hope that, with time, you'll find the courage to forgive me and question the decisions we both made in the past.
You dealt with my absence and with our parents when you shouldn't have. You were too young and moldable. I hope this message comes to you in time. You have so many wonderful things ahead...
I will always love you, despite you probably believed otherwise.
Your sister,
Jane
Without noticing it, tears broke free, moistening the tight flesh on Emily's cheeks. She wiped them away with no hesitation, quite aware of how the sight of her crying disturbed her mother.
"How did she die?" Emily asked, her voice composed despite the shaking chills that rippled through her body.
"We called the executor. He didn't say much." Roberta paused. Her eyes eluded Emily's. "Only that she died at night, at home. A month ago."
A sting, like a knife twisting in an old wound, burned her chest. She was thirty-three years old, only five more than Emily.
"A month?" She repeated confused and looked down at the paper she held in her hands. Then she looked to Roberta. The letter was written three weeks ago. "How long have you known?"
