There she was.

She lay there, isolated from the rest of the world, stuck in a state of seclusion, trapped inside that empty cavity of a body as we sat, incapable, and stared. There was nothing we could say. There was nothing we could do.
Mother stood stiff next to me, a steel magnolia, refusing to weep as she watched her baby girl drift away. I looked at her weathered old skin and reminded myself of her sorrows.
The room smelled strongly of acidic disinfectant, and I pawed at my nose instinctively. Nothing helped the smell. Just like nothing helped the sterile floors that were "too clean" and the walls that were "too white" or the sheets that were "too new." Everything was neutral, everything was safe. Everything was temporary. It was a temporary room. And there were only two alternatives.
I stepped forward, kneeling by Charlotte's bed to look at her. "She is too young" I thought as my lip quivered on the edge of hysteric. "Too young, too young" I repeated, barely audible this time, crescendoing as I shook my head, sniffed hard and cleared my throat, desperately digging for dignity to hide the despair.
She was beautiful. Her blonde hair fell in perfect ringlets around her fair face, framing her heart-shaped head and cascading past her shoulders, messy and wild while at the same time tidy and neat. Her eyes told stories-they were always so expressive, crying for the helpless, murderous of the malicious, and eager for the earnest and downtrodden. She followed her feelings, whether they seemed irrelevant or imperative, and stood strong to the truth-one look gave away her persistence. She had soft lips, still young and naive, untouched and unscathed by the wicked ways of our ugly world. Out of these lips came words of high hopes, of pestering curiosity, unfulfilled dreams, blunt realities followed by provoking aspirations.
I picked up the dainty hand, so small but blistered and calloused from pencils and climbing trees. I saw the chipped nail polish and remembered the times that she wouldn't sit still. I laughed. "Wow, Char, you finally learned how to not move." And for that single instant, I was happy.
Mesmerized with this happy thought, my eyes shifted as I dropped her hand, letting it fall limply to rest on top of the cool comforter. Mother broke her focus from my sister as she watched me shuffle, transfixed, towards the window. I had almost forgotten she was in the room.
“Meredith, what on earth are you doing?” she questioned, suddenly annoyed that I was "disturbing the peace."
I heard her but had no intention of answering. It's not like she ever cared before. I placed my hand up against the frosted glass and shuttered from it's cool shock underneath my warm, living hand. I breathed in a deep breath and glanced at the world outside: a new snowfall covered the trees and bushes, adding sprinkles of white powder to the landscape. The sidewalks were hidden underneath the soft blanket, and a squirrel ventured down from his tree, bravely, creating brand new tracks as he pressed down, imprinting on the frozen path. It was a beautiful scene- the winter was beautiful, the snow was beautiful; it was always beautiful. The ground below spoke of memories, first whispering, then screaming up at me, vibrant and clear.
I remember spending the winters with Charlotte; I remember waiting in anticipation with her at the bus stop, shivering underneath our layers upon layers of clothing, peeling them off only to see who could last the longest in the unforgiving air. I remember fawning over the fact that we could actually see our breath, and drawing in deep gasps until we were dizzy. I remember how the snow fell, so beautiful and breath-taking, as it lazily kissed the earth in icy pecks, millions of times until the earth froze solid. The snow was beautiful. I remember that. But I also remember the summers- I remember splashing in the pool with her on Saturday afternoons down south, eager to cool off after "tanning" under umbrellas with our coloring books in the unforgiving Florida Sun. I remember roaming up and down the sidewalk on rollerblades, bending down, (falling down) only to pick up an array of acorns to add to the collection. I remember wincing with her as we did the tip-toe dance, cringing as our mother applied cool vinegar on our backs (a remedy they claimed) to cure our lobster burns.
I smiled as I remembered those long summer afternoons and short winter nights; I smiled as I remembered the snow. It had been beautiful when Charlotte was healthy, and it was beautiful now. The snow was a constant beauty, but it was a beautiful liar as it spoke of unchanging eternities while Charlotte withered away.
My eyes broke their fixed stare, and I blinked hard to suppress the tears. Turning around, I faced her: (or, what was left of her) it was so inhumane. Tubes tangled together ran up and down her arms, attaching to different bubbling machines with blinking numbers that I didn't understand. A ventilator hooked up to her nose, and I watched the metronomic rise and fall of her chest, keeping time as the air was forced in and out of her lungs. I saw her laying there, still, so different than her usual bustling self, and I saw her pale skin- unhealthy and cracking, papery and loose on her now skinny limbs. Her eyes that always shined so brightly were closed, and the only sound that came from the room was not her entrancing, addictive laughter but the beeps and buzzes of the machines, the slow rise and fall of her monitored heart rate.
I looked at my little sister, long and hard. The sun rays blinded me as they broke through the window, illuminating Charlotte's features, her withering beauty. I knew it was time. Soon the snow would melt outside and nothing would be left of its beauty but the bare branches, whispering of better times. I looked at Charlotte, so beautiful; I looked at Charlotte, and suddenly, I didn't recognize her; It wasn't her. It couldn't be. I looked at Charlotte, my little sister, my beauty.

But she wasn't there.