Sometimes I wake in the night, the feeling of hands on my long hair, gently braiding. At those times, I sit up and think I see a young girl in the corner of my room, eyes shining, smile bright but sad. She fades until I no longer even see a suggestion of her shape. I cry then, even all these years later.
Riding the school bus is not a pleasant experience for most of us. I remember the feet that came out to trip,
the little jabs and comments. Now those things would never bother me, but at 7 years old, riding the “big kids’ bus”, they seemed like the worst thing in the world. I sat in the back, a book open even then, to hide behind. No smart phones, no games to distract.
Halfway through the second week of second grade, two sisters appeared on the bus. They had moved in to an old house on the outskirts of the route. One was a couple of years older than me, blond and boisterous. The other was a mysterious 12 years old – an age of adulthood to me then, a milestone I pined for. She was beautiful, with shoulder length brown hair, quiet, all dark eyes and small infectious smile. No one bothered them, as we were mostly curious. They blended in and made friends quickly. It took the older sister about a week to see my isolation and worry while riding. She soon took up permanent residence in the seat across
from me. One day, she spoke.
“Your hair is beautiful. Do you mind if I braid it?”
I felt as if a bright light were shining on me – I was embarrassed and thrilled at the same time. I nodded my
ok. Thus began a comforting routine that made the bus something to look forward to. She would braid, and chatter about anything – boys, Home Ec class, TV shows – and I was fascinated. I couldn’t figure out why she had decided I was worthy of this attention, but I didn’t dare question it. I lived a 12-year old’s life through those words. She was the first to tell me about periods, kissing boys, all the important stuff. My own big sister was away at college, and I only saw her some weekends and holidays. This new routine helped to fill some of that emotional gap. I had this comfort for a few short months.
Since I had taken over my sister’s room when she left, she didn’t have a bed to come home to. She would sneak in, late, after her drive, and slide in bed with me. Her other option was the couch. I cherished this time alone with my big sister, as I didn’t get it often. She would also tell me about her life in the big (not actually big) city and the things she was doing at college. It sounded so exciting.
I remember that it was Christmas eve, and I was dozing off, waiting for my sisters’ arrival. It was late when
she came in and asked me if I was still awake. She said she had some bad news. When she told me about the accident, I don’t think she realized that I had more than a cursory knowledge of the girl, as she didn’t live in our neighborhood. She told me in a somber but gossipy “isn’t that sad” way, not realizing the effect it would have.
It happened like this - the sisters were sledding. The older one didn’t bail at the bottom of the hill, laughing as she flew like the wind. The younger sister bailed in time, then must have watched in horror as a large truck neared the point where her sister shot out into the road. The driver couldn’t stop. After, he was inconsolable. He wasn’t drinking, he was doing a late run on a holiday for extra pay. My special friend was pinned under the truck, and it was assumed she had died instantly.
“Isn’t that sad?” my sister said again, as I lay mute. I couldn’t seem to get my breath, my chest hitching in
desperation. She apologized for telling me such an awful story, thinking that’s why I was upset. I got it under control, and my sister dozed off, still oblivious. I think it was the first time I thought about loss, and that children could die, or that even MY sister could die. Death was supposed to be for old people, sick pets, and celebrities you saw on the news, ones who weren’t really real.
Christmas morning has always been magic to me. I was always a giddy mess, on the edge of hysterical happiness. That year, I was quieter, a bit less responsive. My Mom thought I didn’t like my presents. My dad told her I was probably tired, before taking off to hang out with his drinking buddies. I liked all my presents just fine. I was in fact tired, as my brain had continued to replay the accident in my head, while I cried quietly for what seemed like hours, then fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.
No longer was the bus something I looked forward to. I tried not to think of this selfishly. It wasn’t about me,
though at 7, everything feels like it is about you. I also tried and failed not to see her bloody, battered face, limbs askew. Her sisters scream, her mother’s tears. I tried to see my friend not overlaid with all that gore. Tried to keep her as a sweet memory. For years I failed. When I lost my own brother a few years later, it seems I got some distance from that first loss.
Now when I think on her, I think about how she made me feel special when the world was making me feel small. How her short life should have been longer, and all the kindness the world missed out on. I think of her family, who moved away, and how their grief path might parallel the one I followed after I lost my brother.
When I wake at night after dark dreams into the hands braiding my hair and soothing me, I cry. Not only for me, but for her, for loss and kindness and a world that gives us both. If we are lucky, we will learn to remember one, and let go of the other.