Just yesterday.
We were sitting in the den.
She falls down hard as she struggles into the room.
Daddy picks her up and places her on his chair.
I crawl over to her as she cries.
I lean in and kiss her forehead.
I want her to know it’ll be okay.
I want her to know I’ll be there for her.
Always.

I glance back at the photo as Mimi walks into the room, looking for me. She looks at me with understanding, sorrow, and pain. As she attempts to approach me, I throw my arms around her and tell her I’m fine. I ask where my sister is. Mimi looks up the steps and I know exactly what she means. When I push the door open to daddy’s room, I see the convulsing bulge in the blankets cringe further. I pull back the pale blue covers that still smell like him to reveal her lying curled up with burning eyes and a bubblegum pink nose. She catches my eye and it sends her into a fit. I hold her there for hours, telling her that it’ll be okay, that everything will be okay, that he’s in a better place. I kiss her forehead as she falls asleep in my arms, exhausted by the tears.
Just yesterday.
I was holding her in my arms.
We were bobbing around the living room.
She was giggling.
Her white Chiclets gleaming in the summer sun rays.
My young arms were burning with exhaustion.
I wouldn’t put her down, though.
I will never let go of her.

I place the picture back in my wallet as I look up towards her bedroom door with expecting eyes. I hear the knob slowly twirl around in her hand on the opposite side and brace myself for the show. She’s beautiful. Emerging from the door as if she’s an angel, my baby sister floats across the room cloaked in a Grecian style gown of pure white. The tears immediately flood my eyes. She has that same fire in her eyes, but that same gentleness to her smile as well. He would be so proud right now. I have no words to speak to her and she knows it. She looks at me with his auburn, burning eyes and she knows. Fighting back the immense flood of tears, I stand and grab her hands in my own. Through silence I tell her how beautiful she looks, how proud daddy would be of her, how proud I am of her. She whispers a thank you and works her way back into my arms once again.
Just yesterday.
We were standing in the church.
Both of us had tears pouring down our cheeks.
I took her hand in mine.
I looked into her eyes.
I told her I loved her.
I will always love her.
Forever.

I place the photo of us two wrapped within each other from my wedding day back on the dresser as she comes out into the living room. I look at her. Old, aged, frail. She raised me. When my mother walked out after I was born, she took on the role with more ferocity than a grown woman. When daddy never came home, she was the one to hold my hand and comfort me through the night. It’s my turn now. She spent all those years taking care of me and sacrificing her own life to make sure I got the life I wanted. I’ve been so selfish. She deserves a family of her own, a daughter other than her sister. When she lies down on the bed, I walk over and grasp her hand gently. We sit there in meaningful silence as I whisper my regrets into the air. She can see the apologies in my eyes and squeezes my hand in hers. Once my eyes begin to tear up, she points to the dresser across the room. On top lie a Polaroid camera and a large, leather-bound book. When I reach her bedside once more, she pats the small space next to her. I climb up into the bed with her and place my arm around her shoulders. She motions to the camera.
Just today.
We laid together for three hours.
We flipped through her photo album.
She’s been keeping photos of us since I was barely one.
She’s been sick for about a year now.
She couldn’t fight any longer.
I lost her.
I lost my hero.