My Sister The Day She Died

Loosing someone close is a traumatic experience. Even more so if the loss should come suddenly and without prior warning. The accompanying pain often lingers, and years after there are often that feeling of sadness.

14th March 1961 is such a day.

That evening, as I stepped into the house after school, there was an uncanny silence. Walking in I saw mum crying. Perplexed, I was about to ask, when she looked up and told me that my sister had died that morning.

I was stunned. At 10 years of age, I was much sheltered from the vagaries of life. Death, in my youthful ignorance, has no real meaning.

I found my sister's school bag, lying on a small table, a forlorn object, awaiting its owner. It was a light brown, rectangular hard-case bag, with two hinge locks that opened with a characteristic "clack". The keys hung silently, like puppets on strings. But the bag was not locked.

I knelt down, moving my hands slowly across the top of the bag, somehow trying to find the warmth, and if possible, to feel the presence of my sister.

Her books were neatly arranged. Her exercise books were on one side textbooks on the other, larger ones were at the bottom and with her wooden pencil case in-between. This was characteristic of her as she was always very neat and tidy.

Without disturbing her orderliness, I carefully retrieved a few of her exercise books. As I turned the silent pages, I saw favorable comments on her English exercises. Mathematics was certainly her weakest.
There was an English textbook, the top right corner of which was smeared in blue. Other textbooks had similar blue patches, though on different areas. I recalled having accidentally spilled a bottle of ink, causing these distinctive blue patches.

I returned the books to their original position, fearing that Sis might be upset.

Memories of the past, and images of her filled my clouded mind. I recalled those happy moments we spent together. Her dark complexion, small petite face, with a firm set of teeth, and that distinctive black mole right at the center of her left eyebrow. That husky voice, melodious at times, all of which I had not too long ago taken so much for granted.

Yet now, when I most wanted to hear it again, it seemed so distant.

I cried as I approached her bed, the one she had slept on, mere hours ago. I took up her pillow and for a long time I placed it over my face, trying to salvage that last smell of her. I had hoped that

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