My Sister.

Life is indeed short and dreams can be aborted..." You are always complaining", dad said with a visible iota of anger. "Just take a look at your elder sister, Dorothy, she's always up and doing and never complains."

Al...lll...llll yo...you know hoo....www.ww to do is to...to....ooo..complain", mtcheeew, he hissed angrily. Dad stammers when he is angry, and obviously, you don't dare reply or grunt.

My sister, Dorothy, is 20, the eldest of three children, and, yes, the only daughter. My sister is a workaholic and a bulldozer. She works and works without getting tired. Although she goes out every day except for Thursdays when she says she's on for a special outing, which I don't have an idea of, ever since its inception. 

My sister is very nice and dashes out cheerfully. She believes in love and never for once stopped praising nature, although I don't think I've seen her with any guy, oh! Except for Jay. Left to me, I think house chores belong to females, but my parents kick against that notion with all vigor. My Mom especially says that you should learn as a guy to help ladies and that we are created as helpmates for ourselves. Nevertheless, I still find it difficult to align myself with that mystery. As usual, Dorothy went on her special outing, but it was unusual because no work had been done. More so, my parents were involved in numerous calls, and I couldn't even fathom what was on.

My sister didn't come back, and my parents didn't go out. I was on vacation, so I was home too, but in my orchard, quite a distance from our house. Hours later, dad called the rest of us to the sitting room. When we were all seated, he took us to Dorothy's room, but as soon as we opened her room, Mom burst into tears.

Now, that was quite unusual also. My sister's room was sparkling clean, and there were no signs that someone had once occupied that space. Did she elope like those girls in Bollywood films? Dad narrated to us how she had been battling fiercely with an unknown sickness that has had no cure since she was 10. She had been given an ultimatum of 20 years, and she had worked herself up. She sang, danced, painted, and sew. She would work tirelessly just to make sure every second counted. Now I know why she never complained. She knew she was going to die and the only way to not think much was to work.

Dad continued by saying that her sickness got worse just while she clocked 18, and since then, she had been on different medications. Dorothy had strictly instructed that no restrictions be made about how she worked, and she had stopped using her drugs and patiently awaited death. Now I wonder how someone like her could work so fearlessly while she was alive. My sister could combine three different works and would not even pant. Doesn't she feel pain? Doesn't she cry or feel uncomfortable? I've never caught her crying, uh, except for the day I bought her a wristband on which her name was written. It felt weird to me why she would cry, but I waved it off as a girl's dumbness. Now she's gone, and I didn't even get to say goodbye.

In case you don't know, she's my role model who I could boast of anywhere. I didn't tell her because she never spoke much, just a few sentences, and that was all. I didn't wait to hear the rest of the heart-piercing story before I rushed out of the room, crying profusely. My younger brother followed me and, confused about what to do, started crying also. Oh! I hate this sight. Later at night, I went back to her room and inhaled the fragrance of her spirit, and I knew that the day she died was the day she began to live deeply in my heart.

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