Whispers of a Fading Summer's Loss

          May 15th, 2006
         Thursday
         3:47 P.M.


          Today, the air grows warmer, and the spring showers are becoming more and more scarce. When the clouds part and the sun peeks through, assuming I'm awake before the sun sets, I stand outside, close my eyes, and lift my face to the sky. As I savor the last bleeding days of spring, I must be mindful not to stay out too long, lest I risk a burn from the distant, blazing inferno. I've always been curious, how can something so far away hurt you? Although I am standing in the present, breathing the fresh crisp air, I am living in the past - when things were much simpler. When you were still by my side.
          For a brief moment, I allow myself to feel the warmth of the sun's rays against my pale skin, bathing in it. And for a moment, I can disregard the noises surrounding me. I'm not sure if you remember the subtle elements of our neighborhood, thus I will take it upon myself to give your memory a small refresher.
          Wind blows gently through the trees, attending to the young, white blossoms in a maternal manner. The pollen of the pale pink buds produces a sweet, clean scent, but as it dances through the air, it begins to irritate my sinuses. Although, while the temperature shifted back and forth rapidly, allergies were never an issue for you. Cardinals sing a triumphant song, celebrating the construction of their new nests, merrily inviting any creature over for a housewarming soir. Neighboring children squeal in delight, taking advantage of their free time after school and the nice weather to play a game. Do you remember when we used to join in on the friendly competitions? It's an odd feeling to find traces of yourself within children you've never spoken to, but enough of my poetic ramblings. You used to tease me about going on and on, yet I can't help it. As a writer, it is in my nature.
          Did you know? I've become quite good at letting the noises of my surroundings fade into nothingness. As I am standing outside, my mind does not wander away from the effulgent warmth of the sun. A light breeze envelops me, blowing underneath my loose shirt, goosebumps spreading across my skin like ripples upon the water. During these fleeting tranquil moments, the world stops. The world stops, and I am at the center. Everything is still and serene; that is, until the whispers begin.
          "Oh my, the poor thing..."
          "Mommy, why is she just standing there like that?"
          "Let's move along, darling. Don't stare. She has suffered enough."
          Hushed murmurs, not meant to be heard by me, pass by. Did you know? Years ago, we were the biggest topic in the neighborhood. People would knock on our door, ask Mom how she's doing, hoping to get the latest insight on what happened to you. Bribery came in the form of casseroles, gift baskets, and homemade desserts. That year, Mom didn't have to cook dinner once, yet it made me sick to eat anything gifted by the neighbors. I never ask anyone for their pity, nor do I need it. In any case, their concerns were fabricated. A selfish need to be in the know was cleverly disguised as sympathy. As the years passed, their "concern" faded away. They accepted that you were gone, and it didn't affect their lives in the slightest; it wasn't as easy for us. As the old neighbors began to fizzle out of their houses, they would tell our story to the new ones that took their place. This is how our story has stayed alive.
          A cloud passes over the sun, blocking the welcoming light, as if ushering me back into the dimness of the house. My time outside has come to an end today. I take one final breath of fresh spring air before returning to the porch. By the time I reach the door, the sun has returned, casting a soft outline of shade from the old cypress tree. The shadows of its spindly branches look like dark hands, beckoning me to stay for just a moment longer. In the past, when you were still living with us, I used to fear the towering tree, do you remember? The branches would scrape across our window during the deafening thunderstorm during the night. Ironically, as the years passed, I grew to admire the elderly tree. It is one thing that has remained constant throughout our lives, having withstood the test of time. Despite everything, it's still here.
          I'm irritated that the whispers of nosy neighbors have exiled me to confinement early today. The comfortable weather of spring has almost come to an end, bringing the smothering, sweltering heat of summer. Every summer without you has been nothing short of agony. There isn't much time before I'm thrown into an ocean of bad memories. As I struggle to stay afloat, I splash around in inky black water, fighting against distressing memories to stay above the surface. I know that I am doomed to the inevitable outcome of drowning, yet I wrestle with the waves anyway.
          I shut the door, silencing the sounds of nature and, more importantly, the whispers. Standing in the entrance of the hallway, I look down the dark, empty space. A small, antique mirror reflects a dim light peeking in through the window, insistent on making its presence known. It isn't the same if the glow lacks the warmth from the sun - it's only artificial light.
          Regardless, the bright reflection illuminating the hallway still catches my gaze, a shining spec in my dark self-created ambience. As I drag myself toward the mirror, the small light lands on my cheek, right below the scar given to me so many years ago. I stare at the light on my face, cursing the ray of light for taunting me. When you left, gazing upon my reflection in the mirror had been tormenting for the longest time. As time allowed it to grow easier, the pain in my chest never parted; it only dulled into an ache, barely noticeable.
          Yet, as I matured, a faint question lingered in the back of my mind. If you had grown up alongside me, what would you have looked like? Would you have kept Mom's green eyes, always observing to make your next move? Would you have kept Dad's sharp nose, always demanding respect and admiration? Would you have lost your baby fat and matured into your face like I did?
          Loosely, I can imagine what you'd look like at my age, or at least, what you should look like. I will never forget your face. How could I? It is my own, after all. If I didn't see you every time I looked in the mirror, would your disappearance have been tolerable?
          Now, I am about to say something that may upset you when you read this journal, but you have to understand, right? Besides, the feeling of reuniting after so many years will erase any lingering anger. One day, we will laugh together again. Yet sometimes I wish we weren't twins. If we were "just" sisters, a couple years of age separating us, perhaps I might be able to forget your face. Would it soften the blow of living without you if I could allow myself to forget your face?
          Except, you would have never allowed yourself to look like this.
          You would have taken care of yourself. Instead, I look like an uncanny, distorted version of what you should have looked like. Am I the one who has been missing all these years?
          From years of solitude within the house, my skin lost its glow and was now a muted, colorless gray. The sickly blue veins were visible just below the surface of my skin, being the only source of color found within my complexion. You, on the other hand, would have gone outside frequently. You reveled in nature, savoring every bit of the outdoors. Your skin would be radiantly glowing, a lovely olive color from being gently embraced by the sun. The bags hanging heavily underneath my melancholic eyes are sunken in from lack of sleep and years of wondering. If you were here, you would have chastised me for not properly caring for myself. The last time I saw you, your hair was down, hanging in long, black tendrils that just passed your waist, a beautiful sea of dark curls. The soft daylight within the hallway reflects off the roots of my short, - it's all I can bring myself to manage - unkempt hair.
          As the seasons change, the anniversary of the day you were taken away from us quickly approaches. The cicadas sing a somber song sending me into a spiral of sentiments. As their song grows closer, as do the memories of that summer.
          Do you remember? Summer used to be such a happy time for us. We would sit on the porch for hours, talking about plans for tomorrow and the next day, waiting for the sun to set so we could watch the fireflies. I recall you holding the wriggling bugs in your bare hands, chasing after me. I'd run back into the house shrieking, shouting at you not to get any closer through the screen door separating us. You would smile your perfect, infallible smile, mouth stained red with the sticky remnants of a popsicle.
          How about the long days we spent at the pool? As soon as the gate opened, we would bound toward the water, enticed by the vastness. To us, the small pool was an ocean just because we believed it was so. When the local teenagers who had taken on a job as a lifeguard for the summer kicked us out because the pool had closed, we would race one another home on our bikes. The setting sun would dry the lingering water from our skin before we had arrived at home. Mom would have to remind us not to run in the house as we sprinted towards our room. With our damp swimsuits, we would jump into bed. The warmth from the summer sun clung to our skin as we drifted asleep for a lazy afternoon nap. The smell of chlorine surrounded us, entangled in our matted hair - a problem we would deal with when we woke.
          What about our family's Fourth of July festivities? Is that something you remember as well? Smoke burned at our noses, lingering heavily in the air. An aura of red, blue, and every other color painted the night sky into a vivacious portrait. As you watched the vibrant fireworks explode above you, the lit sparkler in your hand brightened your face from underneath. I worried one of the entropic sparks would cling to your skin, burning the flesh in its path as you longingly gazed at the sky above. Reaching across you, I grabbed the lit firework and scolded you to be careful. If you had gotten hurt, I knew it was I that would have to come to your aid; although, our roles were usually reversed. Laughter erupted from within you. As if it were contagious, I began to laugh as well.
          I hope you know, I cherish many memories from our childhood. At least, the ones I allow myself to remember.
          This summer will mark twenty years since your disappearance, but this summer won't be like the rest. If the cycle repeats itself, as it is destined to do according to hours of tedious research, then now is the time to make a move.
          I'm going back to Connecticut, back to New Hartford. Where you were taken from us.
          I'll bring you home, Amaia.
          And if I can't, I'll find some answers for both of us.