All the Years That Didn't Happen

Glitter has been stuck to the walls for as long as I can remember. The stubborn flakes stayed despite my mother's scrubbing and annoyed sighs.

In the corner of the room sits a dresser. The color has long since faded from the vibrant pink it once was. Patches of paint are completely peeled from stickers long ago.

I let my feet lead me toward it. The drawer is wedged shut, but with a strong pull, it gives way. Many shirts are folded perfectly. Some are messily thrown in, as if she disturbed them before she left.

I let my head lean toward them and inhale one last time. They don't smell like her anymore and that has a choked sob forcing itself out.

Tears stream down my face and pool in my collarbone.

The bed lingers unmade. No one is willing to touch it. A pink rug sits lopsided on the floor, showing just a hint of a giant blue stain from that time she spilled her slushy.

Two dolls haven't moved from the floor. One hers, one mine. Mom would usually get upset when we didn't clean our messes but she's never been angry about this one. They have permanent smiles on their faces despite their matted hair and dirt-stained clothes. Our clothes had been dirty, too. We brought them outside to play. I can't even remember how we had gotten so dirty. I can't bring myself to step over them.

A picture frame was knocked over. I've never stood it back up. She didn't care about her room being perfect. The glass frame is cracked right down the middle. Right in between the two children with lopsided grins and missing teeth. Right in between us.

I suck in a ragged breath and force my gaze away, not able to take looking at her.

Memories cover the room. They always will. They're bittersweet in a way. Thankful I had them, but heartbroken that that's all they will ever be.

A ladybug painting hangs on the wall, drawn in her art class. Her proud face fills my vision but I shake it away. She wanted to be an artist, loved paint and markers. Anything that wouldn't fade easily. I've never been able to decide if I love or hate her for it. She left her mark on everything, whether it was just by her presence in everyone's lives or with a pencil on her school bus.

Every time Mom would enter my room she would shake her head at the dent in my wall from when she slammed my door open too fast. I can't remember what she had yelled at me for, but I wish I had listened. Mom spent years talking about fixing it. She hasn't brought it up since.

There's so much I wish she could have done. So many things I know she would've loved. I didn't figure it out until recently, but my top college is also the one with the strongest art program in the state.

Tears overflow and drip down to be absorbed by my shirt. I don't stop them, I can't.

I let my eyes take in her room. Why couldn't she have spent less time making everything else stay and more time making herself?

Mr. Teddy still lies on her bed. He was understuffed when she got him so his head hangs sideways. He's wrapped in her blankets. The only thing in this room I've touched. She had rushed out of bed to be on time for school that morning, accidentally leaving him on the ground. I couldn't leave him there. She would've hated it. We had giggled when we raced to the car that day. Racing to see who would get the good seat. I won by a millisecond but I wish I had given it to her. I haven't sat in it since.

We spent the entire ride to school excitedly discussing what we would do when we got home. The games we would play with our dolls. The new princess puzzle Mom had bought for us. A craft she had made a week prior and wanted to repeat.

She never got to do any of it.

Her book sits open on her nightstand. She used to read with a flashlight after dark, sometimes sneaking into my room and reading to me. She was such a good reader and she was so proud of it.

I squeeze my eyes shut while I let my sobs fill the room.

I wish I had known she wouldn't come home from school that day, if only so I could've hugged her a tad bit harder.

I let my eyes peel open as I compose myself. A place that had once been so full of natural light hasn't seen even a fluorescent lightbulb since that day. She was the light not only in this room, but in me.

I breathe in deeply, searching for the smell of her even though I know it's gone. Everything is covered in dust. No one has the heart to clean it.

Making sure I don't disturb anything, I make my way to the door for what I know will be my last time. I close my eyes when I twist the knob and let myself out. Two slow steps and I let the door to my little sister shut quietly behind me.

I stand facing the door to the room that will forever belong to a seven year old girl.

I must stand there for minutes before composing myself enough to open my eyes. The drawings left on the door greet me. I take one step backward, staring at the closed door.

"I'm so sorry," I mutter almost silently.

It's only when I look down that I notice a speck of glitter in my palm. My eyes water and I break into heaves of sobs. My knees collapse beneath me, banging against the hard floor.

I wrap my hand around myself in the final hug I never got to give her.