Rainbirds

by Clarissa Goenawan

If I traced the paths my sister had taken in life, maybe I would finally understand the things she had never said.

Since the day my sister had left Tokyo, I’d hoped for her return, but I’d never told her that. Had I been too proud, or too indifferent? If I’d asked her to come back, would she still be alive? I clenched my fists. No use in asking myself that now—no answer would bring her back. The day my sister died, a part of me died, too.

After a while, their voices started to fade. They were smiling and laughing. Little by little, I felt as if I were leaving the scene, watching them from afar. It was like I was sitting in front of the television, with the happy granddaughter and grandmother onscreen, part of a different reality. I crossed my arms and rested my head against the wall. Before long, I fell away into the past.