Loss

She was a strange little girl, her eyes black with anger and her hair braided with ribbons. Her long blonde locks were sternly caught up in the blood red pieces of silk we had chosen out together.1

"You know Mom hated red, right Madeline?" She turned her angry eyes to me in question, shimmers of sadness swimming upward through the dark irises.2

"Yes Ruthie...Mom said red was a harlot sort of color. Nevertheless, it matches your dress. She would have said it looked fine." I was sitting in her bedroom floor; she was seated in between my legs, as I struggled to hook her necklace around her neck. She had on an ebony colored dress, with long sleeves, and tiny red flowers dotted around the bottom edge of it. Her red tights stood out on her skinny legs and her shiny patent leather shoes were almost too small.3

"Madeline. My shoes hurt." I continued fiddling with her necklace clasp, not quite getting it to where it would stay. This was not the morning I needed to deal with this. "Madeline?"4

A tiny whimper escaped from my throat and I ripped the necklace away from my sister’s neck in frustration, throwing it to her bedroom floor. Tears began to form in my eyes, blurring the posters of Hannah Montana and the thousands of stuffed animals in the Barbie chair in the corner. I tried to focus on the ceiling, where several glow in the dark stars were still miraculously stuck to her ceiling.5

Mom and I had put those up there for her when she was only seven. Ruthie had desperately wanted to sleep outside and this was the next best thing, Mom had thought. My little sister had squealed with delight and immediately hopped into her bunk bed, demanded someone switch off the lights for her.6

"Madeline..." I balled my hands into fists and rubbed my eyes hard. When I emerged, my sisters dark chaotic eyes were burning into mine. "Do you miss Mom?" I didn't answer. There sat my eleven-year-old sister, asking me the most blatantly obvious question ever, and I couldn't answer her. I dropped my hands to my side and watched as Ruthie picked up the necklace I'd thrown to the carpet in frustration and latched it around her slim neck herself. "It's okay if you miss her. I miss her too." And with that, she slipped her arms around my waist, pressed her face to my cheek, and finally let herself sob mercilessly.7

I gently rubbed the back of her head; careful to avoid the twin braids it had taken so long for me to get perfect for her. Mom never let her wander out of the house without her hair fixed and her clothes pristine. I wasn't about to let it be any other way. 8

"I'm so scared to come live with you. I don't want to leave this house. I don't want to leave Mom." Her words wisped by my ear and caused my heart to sink. I couldn't afford the house my mother had raised both Ruthie and I in. It was going on the market next week and my sister was going to be moving into my apartment down town with me. She'd be going to the same school she always had. She'd be just fine...I hoped.9

"I know honey. I'm so sorry." 10

Ruthie hadn't cried when our Mom died. She hadn't shed a tear when Doctor Martin came out into the hall and told us that whatever had ruptured inside of Mom was too far gone to be fixed. We could come in and say goodbye when we ready. After that, they’d pull the plug. I figured Ruthie would break down, let it all pour out, but she didn’t. She looked betrayed, furious, her eyes shining with disapproval. She looked at our mother lying in that bed, eyes closed, chest only moving aided by a machine, and sniffed in disgust. I was sobbing, clutching her hands, telling her it’d be okay. I might only be twenty, but I could take care of her. She pulled away and walked out of the room, not even bothering to say goodbye. 11

I whispered her apologies in Mom’s already gone ears. She couldn’t hear, but I knew she knew. She knew Ruthie better than anyone. She would have understood.12

Now here we were, the day of the funeral. The church Mom had attended since she’d been pregnant with me had paid for the last few house payments, until we could sell the house. Ruthie and Mom had been blessed with so many good friends. Mom had been lucky.13

“I don’t want to go to her funeral.”14

Instinctively my hands flew to my younger sister’s chest, shoving her flat on her back. Her elbows hit the carpet with a surprisingly loud thump. Her wide angry eyes pierced me, her chest heaving. Tears still shone bright on her cheeks, but it only looked like water. She did not look like a child grieving the loss of her mother.15

“You are a selfish child Ruthie. I cannot believe you would even think of saying that. You are going.” I stood awkwardly and grabbed her up by the shoulder of her dress. I began jerking her out of the room, all by the fabric of her garment. Once we were out of the old house, full of memories of each of our younger years, I pushed her against the side of my blue Toyota truck. “Listen to me Ruthie. I don’t mean to be horrible to you. You just lost your mother. But so did I.” Each word seemed like a punch to her, as she attempted to jerk her head away from me, her pale cheeks red with emotion. 16

With that, I grabbed her upper arm, pulled her away from the vehicle, and jerked the passenger side door open. I didn’t even have to tell her to get in. She just did it. She buckled her seat belt and stared at me vacantly. I sighed in defeat and slammed the door shut. 17

Once we were at the church, my voice caught in my throat. I wanted to say someone to my sister, anything. Ruthie simply stared at hem of her black dress, anger eyes hidden from view. So instead, I smoothed my own black dress pants, cleared my throat, and got out of the truck. Ruthie followed suit.18

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Regina Claire Afield20

Devoted mother and friend21

December 1964-October 200722

Ruthie sat next to the tombstone, glaring hard at the small white marble angel that had been placed next to it. She was sitting on the freshly dug up dirt covering our mother, I could already see stains on the back end of her dress. But it didn’t matter, at least not to me. If Mom were here she would be fussing at Ruthie, telling her those dirty marks would never come out; ask her ‘What on God’s green earth did she think she was doing’.23

But I wasn’t Ruthie’s mother. And I never would be.24

“Can we leave now Madeline?” I saw my sister stand and brush whatever remnants of the ground off her that she could. I nodded and turned to walk away. I heard the dull thud of her patent leather shoes on the ground and almost jumped out of my skin when she slipped her small cool hand into my own. I looked down at her in surprise watching her blonde braids bounce with each step she took.25

“I’m sorry.”