A Letter To Amelia

“I hate that you felt like death was your only option”. Not really the proper way to start a letter to someone who’s no longer here. But what else can you say to someone you’ve tried so hard to erase from your memory, until the 16th of April? The day my sister grew weary of this earth. I was only 9 when it happened; she was 16. I still remember the gut-wrenching scream that escaped from my mother’s mouth, seeing her lifeless body lying in a pool of blood. She cradled her against her chest like a newborn; her tears looked like waterfalls landing on her cold skin. I didn’t know what numbness felt like until then. I was forbidden to say the word depression from that day forth, so I would call it the bad thing. The bad thing is known for generational heartache. The bad thing is what made Dad leave. The bad thing is what made my grandmother bedridden for years, and the bad thing took my sister away.

Most nights, I’d wake up in a cold sweat, reliving that day. My mother would tell me she’s in " The Second Heaven," to soothe me. A nearby river not to far from home that was Amelia's favorite hideout. Mom would tell me that this was the place where lost souls go when life becomes heavy. And every year on the anniversary of her death, my mother and I would drive out to the river and place her favorite flowers in the water, purple orchids with a note attached to them, never disclosing what we wrote. Amelia came up with the name due to its mountains of green grass, accompanied by bodies of water, the yellow songbirds, and the open sky, similiar to how God described heaven in the bible. It was the most breathtaking at night. The stars looked like diamonds against a midnight canvas. My Mother always told me how hard it was to get her to leave, that she would throw tantrums, and my mother would throw her over her shoulder, and she would proceed to yell, “I WANT TO BE A STAR IN THE SKY, I WANT TO BE A STAR IN THE SKY”. When our mother asked her why, she replied, “Because stars make me happy, mommy, and I want people to be happy.” My mother would respond with a heartening look and a warm smile.

We began this tradition when I was eleven; I would write something simple, “ I love you”, “Miss you”. But today felt different; my emotions were taking a toll on me. So I grabbed my pen and paper and began to write.

Dear Amelia,

I'm 16 now, but no different than I was when I was 15. I can’t believe it’s been 7 years since you’ve been gone. Mom doesn’t cry as much as she used to, well, at least not around me. I still hear her in the shower over the running water. Don’t worry, I still stay out of your room. But I couldn’t help but notice a Coldplay poster on your wall when Mom was folding your clothes one afternoon. I thought about the time The Scientist was playing when I had my first kiss at my spring fling two years ago. Mom doesn't know. I’m still traumatized from the whole birds and the bees speech she gave you. But I haven’t had that much time to think about boys or school. Honestly, I’ve tried to forget you, but I fail every time. Dad has only called twice since it happened, but it was only for money so he could pay for his therapy sessions. Mom and I were shocked when he told us that, although I despise him for leaving, I applaud him for getting help. Maybe one day we can try to be a family again. A part of me is still angry with you, but another part of me understands. Simply existing in a world without permission can be overwhelming, and this is only the beginning for me. In the first few weeks, I've tried to be strong for mom, as she did the same for me. But we've learned to be more open with our feelings in counseling. Yeah, counseling, can you believe it? It was overbearing at first, but it's gotten better. We still visit the river every year, mom says it's the best way to feel closer to you. But I haven’t felt anything lately. I just wish you were here, or maybe you could give me a sign that you're listening. I hate that you felt like death was your only option. Maybe there was something I could have done differently that would have made you stay longer. But now I can only focus on what lies ahead. I love you, Amelia. I hope you're happy, I hope you’re free.

-Love Andrea.

I then folded the letter, sealing it with a kiss, and attached it to the purple orchids thrown on a white sleeve puff maxi dress, and made my way downstairs to meet my mom so we could drive to the river. We placed our flowers on the water and watched them drift away. We stood there in silence. I took a glance over at my mother in her white satin dress; the serene look on her face was like she had finally come to terms with her daughter’s death. In our first counseling session, she expressed how, a month before the incident, Amelia was like a stranger in her home, barely speaking, barely eating, and locking herself in her room for hour's. How can someone be so close, yet so far?. How you fix an emotional disconnection?. It was the same signs she had noticed with my father, but because Amelia was so young, she thought it was just a phase, A teenage rebellion of some sort, but she never thought it would lead to something so tragic. Guilt had consumed my mother for years, “Why couldn’t she give me her pain? I could have handled it”, she would plead. Then one day, our counselor shared a quote by the famous poet Rumi: “ The wound is the place where the light enters.” I didn't have a clear understanding of what he meant, but I like to think that maybe Amelia is that light. A light that will never dim.

Before my mother could turn back to the car , I grabbed her hand and told her I loved her. It was the first time we shared words since we’ve visited this place. She pulled me close in a warm embrace. “I love you too, baby, so much," she responded, simultaneously stroking the back of my hair, laying a kiss on my forehead. A few moments later, we suddenly caught a glimpse of a star blazing bright in the distance. My mother pointed, “ Look, it’s Amelia”, she said. We stopped and savored this moment, feeling nothing but happiness, gazing at Amelia, our star in the sky.