It was the best time of year. The time of year when no vigilant person could leave their front porch and not be impressed by the beauty of the earth around them. Where every step taken was taken with joy, and the sun's brilliant rays graced the bodies of all who walked beneath it. It was a simple and blissful time: it was summer.

Summer of 1996 to be exact, and my little sister Angelea and I were spending it at my grandmother's home, just a ten minute walk away from the St. Croix river. Ever since I was young enough to remember I had been spending my summer's there, each day running down the trail to the river no matter rain or shine. To me, the riverbanks were a second home. A place where I could collect my thoughts and watch the gentle waves dance across my toes, laughing as they slowly reached further up my legs. No one ever bothered me there. It was quiet and beautiful, and most of all it was mine.

That is... until the day Angelea was born. I still remember holding her for the first time in the hospital, with my father right beside me, and wondering why she had lived and not my mother. I was told it was a complicated birth and that my mother died without pain, but to me that did little to stifle the sudden loss and confusion I felt without her. I believed Angelea was just a weak copy of the mother I had loved, and decided I wanted nothing to do with her.

Overtime things did get better though. Even though I no longer blamed her for our mother's death, I still thought of Angelea as a burden. On top of that, as my sister aged she began to look more and more like my mother, which I knew my father loved. Her shimmering curls and doe eyes put my modest looks to shame, and the affection my father showed her for it instilled in me a kind of jealousy previously unknown to me. My kind father knew of this and in turn would shower me with gifts and praise. He never skipped a day without telling me he loved me, but for some reason my jealousy pushed on.

Despite this, I was never ungrateful for the things I received. In fact, on the eve of my tenth birthday, my father gave to me the most beautiful gift of all. It was my mother's old copy of Wuthering Heights, that I had often seen her reading when I was a young child. The worn pages and underlined phrases gave me back a piece of my mother, and for this it was my most prized possession. Angelea was never allowed to go near it.

So every day of summer I would fix us breakfast, making sure to leave an extra plate for when our grandmother would awake, before my sister and I would start on the trail down towards the river. Angelea was about eight this summer, so she no longer needed such vigilance as she did when she was younger. Most times she would busy herself collecting shells or swaying in the shallow river waters, allowing me to slip away into the pure quiet I craved more than anything. During these times I could steal away to the old dock and read a book or two. Resting on the furthest edge gave me a thrill for some reason, because there one of the many pegs supporting the dock was slightly crooked. A visible sway could be seen any time anyone ventured out to test their weight on that weak corner. Sitting there, in a quiet bliss, added a certain drama to the books I read. Testing the corner just enough to see the dock sway made me feel powerful, which I loved.

So one day, Angelea and I were at the riverbank as always. It was then late August, and the gentle breezes of summer now contained the slightest hint of fall. I was reading Wuthering Heights, which had become one of my favorites, and sitting on the rocky corner of the dock when Angelea approached.

“Hey!” she said. “What'cha reading?”

“Nothing” I said, as I quickly shut my book and set it beside me along the edge. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh umm, I just came over to ask if you wanted to go with me further up the shore? The waves are looking big up there and we could go swimming in them!”

“Why would you want to go swimming up there? You'd get hurt.” I said passively.

“No I wouldn't, you'd be with me! And besides everyone knows the more waves the more fun swimming is!” said Angelea, in her young and always hopeful voice.

“Well I certainly didn't know that. Look, you can go up there, but don't expect me to come along. Just be back before dinner.” I said, as I picked up my book and began to read again. She still stood slightly behind me as a long pause ensued between us. Finally one of us broke the silence:

“Why don't you ever want to be with me?” she said softly. “Why is it that you care more about your stupid books than me...? We're supposed to be sisters.”

I continued reading. If I just ignored her she'd go away, like always.

“Huh? Why??” she said, raising her voice.

I thought to myself: just keep reading. Don't let her test you. Don't say anything and she'll leave. Oh please leave.

“Ugh! Fine be that way, but whenever you decide to get your head out of that book and into the real world, I'll be up the shore waiting for you.” And with that she kicked me in the back. Not necessarily enough to hurt, but just enough to make a point. And make a point she did...

I sat, open eyed, as I watched my book tumble out of my hands and fall into some old netting on the post beneath me. Slowly, the water grazed the cover and started sinking into the worn pages I was so fond of. To me, that moment was more than just a ruined book. It was symbolic of how Angelea came into my life, stole away everything and wrecked all the peace, and beauty I used to see, and for me that was too much.

So I said nothing. I got up, brushed past her and slowly started walking to the trail-head that would take me home. I instantly waved away her sorrowful shouts with a hand of iron and shut the door on her forever.

The rest of that day passed as a blur. I ate the dinner of tomato soup our grandma had prepared and avoided Angelea entirely. I could tell she was sorry, but it was all too easy for me to shut her out than to look her in the eyes.

Night time came and I lay in bed thinking about my Wuthering Heights book drowning in the depths of the St. Croix, and along with it the last pieces I had of my mother. The only thing I had of her, ruined and gone forever, just like the life I had previously known.

The wind whistled across the windows of our bedroom, as a storm raged outside. Lightening was flashing and I could see the distant waters of the river roaring downstream. Some of the biggest waves I had ever seen were tumbling onto the shore and crashing against the rocks, yet all I could think about was myself. Like always, I was selfish and thought of myself.

Angelea crept into her side of our bed, and I could hear soft tears rolling down her cheeks yet I said nothing. Why didn't I forgive her? Why was I so cruel?

“I'm so sorry Cathy. I didn't mean to, I just wanted you to notice me, and to...”

“Be quiet, you've done enough already.” I said interrupting.

“But Cathy please, I only...”

“You've ruined everything. You always have.” I said, spitting the words out with a cruel force I didn't know I possessed. And with that she was suddenly quiet.

So here I am, now in my thirties, reaching back into old memories I thought I had once banished, but that's the thing about guilt. It never fully leaves you.

Later that night, I would awake to my panicked Grandmother and an empty spot beside me in our bed. Eventually, I would find that my beautiful sister ventured down to the riverbank late in the night, without a doubt trying to obtain my sunken book from the netting, when the crooked corner post finally gave out, swallowing the dock and my sister into the chilly waters. Bits and pieces of the dock would resurface and drift to shore, but my beautiful Angelea never would. She was gone forever into the waters that once were my everything, and now are a constant reminder of everything I have lost.

I am a selfish person. I always have been. And to this day I still think I am. Except then I was selfish for myself, keeping things and my time away from my sister, but now I am selfish for her. I no longer live my life in solitude. I live it in the joyous, raucous way we humans do. I live each day to the fullest as she would have, because I know that my life is no longer my own. Her spirit lives within me, and I must live my life for the both of us in the happy, young ways of my sister. My beautiful Angelea.