Everything That Went Unsaid

There are approximately 1,010,300 words in the English language. Yet there will never be enough words to express how sorry I am for everything. I wish I could knock on that old red door one last time. I wish Dad didn’t have to leave. I wish Mom didn’t have to work. I wish you could’ve been happy.

Then again, there are days that I’m glad we made it on our own. I’m proud we took care of ourselves. I liked that it was us against the world. It’s selfish, I know, but I knew you better than anyone else. We were partners in crime. We were the heroes in our story. We were knights and dragons. And I miss that.

Do you remember that time we went to the lake? You found a snake in the brush and screamed at the top of your lungs. You started running, and I ran with you. And somehow that turned into a game of tag. What about that time in the middle of summer when we got lost in a corn field? We wandered around for hours and collapsed on the side of a dirt road when we finally got out. Do you remember the look on the sheriff’s face when he found us?

Do you remember the hours we spent laughing in the attic? The paper dolls Mom taught us how to make? The fifth-grade play we missed because we were hunting leprechauns? I miss those days. Do you?

I remember the day Dad left for good. It was rainy. There were still sparklers and little pieces of plastic spread around the yard from Independence Day. We put on our yellow boots and kicked puddles at each other all morning. You told me for the fifth time that week that you wanted to be a pilot. I laughed and told you that flying was hard work.

We made grilled cheese and snuck pudding cups from the fridge for lunch. Mom told us we weren’t allowed to have them till Friday. We giggled at our perfectly executed evil plan. When Mom got home, she set her blue nurse bag down next to our muddy rainboots. She looked at the pudding still on your nose, and you told her it was dirt.

Dinner was cooking when Dad walked in. He smiled because he knew it was lasagna. You didn’t notice, but his eyes were sad. I watched him with a pink LEGO in my hand. You had decided you wanted to build a unicorn. You insisted that we use only three colors: pink, purple, and white. He walked into the kitchen and kissed Mom on the cheek. When he whispered in her ear, her face paled.

Did you know that when you ran into his arms, and he tossed you in the air, that it’d be the last time? I did. Was your brain telling you that things were about change? Mine was. When our parents sat us down at the table after dinner, were you scared? Because I could see something other than innocence in your eyes.

Years passed after Dad left. We’d talk to him on weekends. I started high school. You stopped liking dresses. Mom was always tired. I remember braiding your hair at night when you couldn’t sleep. We’d stay awake for hours. Braid after braid after braid. Weaving our worries away in your hair. I never told you that I couldn’t sleep either.

Do you remember that fight we had the morning of my sixteenth birthday? I don’t even remember what it was about. But we were both on edge that day. Maybe we knew the tears Mom would bring home that afternoon. Maybe somehow we knew that Dad really wasn’t ever coming home.

That afternoon, I had a lot of homework. I had it walled around me like my very own fortress. Most of it was already finished, but I didn’t want to talk to you. You were looking at travel magazines, feet digging into our worn couch like you wanted to kick something. We both jumped when the door creaked open. Our fear melted into worry and confusion when Mom walked in. She was never home early.

I remember you told me that the memorial service felt like a dream. I answered that I wish it were. Days passed. Weeks passed. Months passed. We didn’t grow closer together. The three of us who were left in our fractured little small town family. I remember several days I felt like a ghost in my own house. I know you felt the same.

Do you remember the day I got into college? We’d started talking to each other a few weeks earlier. Your smile was genuine that day. You were a little nervous. So was I. I remember you told me you had your life planned out. I thought you were crazy. I was jealous. I didn’t know what I wanted to do after college. You wanted to travel the world. You always had.

I wish I had enough time to keep going. I wish I could watch your face when you read this. I wish I knew where you were. I wish a lot of things. I think I lied when I said I was sorry. Because the longer I look at the words on this page. The more sure I am that all our pain had a purpose. Isn’t that what the pastor used to say? Would you be who you are today without your experiences? I don’t think I would. I hope you still love me, because I never stopped loving you. No matter how distant you got. I love you, Meg.

Love, Your sister,

Katie

I stared at the letter. The one I never opened. She wrote me one every month for six years. When they stopped coming, I was relieved. Then I was worried. Now she’s with Dad. She left a family behind. I didn’t even know she was married.

At first, I hated myself. For not knowing. For not caring what the letters said. Then I read them. It helped. She sent some to Mom, too; she brought us back together. I never thought anything could hurt more than losing Dad. I was wrong.

I wish I could tell her I got to travel the world ten times over. That I loved her. I wish a lot of things. Birds of a feather, she and I were. There was a knock on the door. Must’ve been the plumber.

“Come in!” I called.

“Megan?” A voice answered. A shiver ran through my spine. I knew that voice. How could I ever forget that gentle voice?

I hesitated, "Katie?"