Our Little World

by Karen Winn

Nobody, I realized then, could ever outshine my sister.

That was the thing with us, always the thing. We were sisters. Our fights were Cold War epic. When she hugged me—and meant it—it felt like an invitation to a secret society. When she judged me, it was a Supreme Court ruling. We were hot and cold, and both at once. Sin and virtue, and virtue and sin. An entire world war occurred within our small, confined existences. Sisters were we.

They say time slows down, distorts, in moments of crisis. I would read about this phenomenon as an adult, how a part of the brain called the amygdala becomes more active in emotional situations, laying down new, extra bricks of memory, in addition to the normal sets of memories we create. It’s why pivotal moments are seared within us with all their sensory glory.

Was a family room still called a family room when your family no longer existed?

That happened a lot—wanting to tell my sister things until the cold realization of her death would sweep back into my consciousness.

I would have told you every day how much I loved you, even when we fought. I knew you struggled with your diabetes, but I swear I didn’t know how difficult it was. So I would have helped you as much as you needed, to the point of annoyance; I would have chased you all around town that last day of your life, force-feeding you if necessary.

Your absence left a hole in our family, and in me. In everyone.

She meant, you’re dead, and we’re not, so we have to keep moving forward, or trying, at least. There’s no other way.