The door of her bed room screamed as I opened it. A rusty vacant smell raced over my body, one foot after another left its print in the dusty carpet of my sister’s old room. Closing the cinnamon door behind me I ventured over to her bed.
Pulling the string I closed the shades, she hated them open. The room was washed out in darkness. Before the accident she loved to sit in her dark room pleased, content to be alone with her thought and dreams.
I detested the way the dust of ten months leaned against all her possessions, as if she was never there, as though she never existed. Laying my head down on the indent of her pillow, where she once laid her head, the smell of her shampoo invaded my memory like a reoccurring injury. The strawberry shampoo she used had once been my favorite smell, until the day of the car accident.
The car rolled over and over again until it crashed under a dead willow tree upside down. The tang of gas, oil and blood filled my nostrils as I fought for consciousness. The car I had loved, used to smell like clean cotton, and a pine tree air freshener, now held the stench of a car graveyard.
“Was this soon to be my grave?” I thought.
I moved my feet to the bed which brought the dust to life, dancing in the air, slowly falling down on my jeans to once again rest in peace. I remember the day vividly, the smells, each one bringing her once again to life, her smile to once again pierce my heart.
It was a calm morning filled with the aroma of blueberry pancakes and fresh squeezed orange juice. She was at the table first, smiling, saying good morning, buttering her food. The day flashed before me, every foot step she took, every door handle she touched opening a wound in my heart bleeding into my mind.
She was the first to the shower, when I opened the door the steam smelled like dirty rags; once again her wet towel lay on the floor, wrinkled lifeless. Her strawberry shampoo smelling like oranges and mangos as we walked to her car about to welcome another school day.
The day started beautiful, didn’t it? Wasn’t it going to turn out great, how could it go wrong? That didn’t matter. Pulling my sister out of the car holding her, telling her that the paramedics were on their way, knowing that with each breath she heaved I could lose her. Sitting in the ambulance the smell of about two broken arms, eighty hearts attracts and about twenty fire victims consumed me, as the LAPD zipped the black bag up and carried it away. Looking down at my hand, feeling hers but not knowing that it truly wasn’t their and never would be again.
Her room has been empty, except for the dust, spiders and other unmentionables. But I don’t see those things; I see the pleasant afternoons spent together talking about boys and being betrayed by friends. When I sit in her room the aroma of memories knocks me over.