‘To Jo, no matter how much you annoy me, I still love you. --Your big sis, Eves.’

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I gaze gloomily into nowhere, when the sky, intricately painted by a wailing banshee today, comes into view. Peculiar palettes of pessimistic blue and sorrowful strokes of soft grey were smeared across the masterpiece, with smudges of sapphire clouds blotched at places. Air, aggressive and violent, was stampeding heavily across the horizon, beating the impotent clouds hard into shape. 

At the breakfast table, my parents awkwardly try to commence a conversation. My mother, with streaks of grey hair and wrinkled, callused skin, talks about the prices of fruits, while my father, brittle and broad-shouldered, listens carefully, thinking intently what to say next. Eating swiftly, I aim to finish my breakfast before ten and head out to work, to prevent myself and them any further awkwardness, like I try to do every day. However, I'm desperate, struggling, agonized. I need help, and they are the only ones who could help me right now. 

Before stepping out, I halt on the porch and stealthily make my way back upstairs, without being noticed by my parents, who are now talking gratefully and warm-heartedly about the neighbors. After a few minuscules, I find myself standing in my childhood bedroom, and searching the rack at the bottom right of my dresser for it. Although it was one of my most cherished items when I left, I never really carried it with me when I went to college or moved to New York or the many places I visited in the last previous years. I guess I wanted to preserve it so that I can always return home, no matter where I go. 

In the far-most corner, there lay the beautiful masterpiece which had sustained my happiness for decades. It carries invaluable memories for me, which no amount of money can replace. A polished round top, with golden, shimmering base, etched,

‘To Jo, no matter how much you annoy me, I still love you. --Your big sis, Eves.’

It was a precious, antique snow globe.  

When I peered into it, I saw... 

“Mum, please... I love it, I want to buy it.” I pled, with utmost innocence. 

“No way... You spent your pocket money on that book, and that snow globe is more of a showpiece, it isn't useful to you.” Explained Mother very patiently. 

“What’s the big deal? Buy it next time,” said my elder sister, Eves, colloquially. 

“It’s too costly, I will have to save this pocket money and the coming ones too. You have always been right; books are useless,” I asseverated, with a rather vexed and infuriated face. 

I saw Mother shooting a sharp glare in my sister’s direction and although I never really understood the cause as a child, it always made me chuckle. 

A rattling noise pulls me out of my reverie, as I sit in the far-left corner of my bright yellow room, attempting to veil myself from the brutal truth. I allow myself to again be enthralled and lost in the magical world of the snow globe. 

A few months later, my seventh birthday arrived. As I unwrapped the silver-lined package signed ‘Eves’ in the very last, it lay inside, ‘the round thing’, and as I flipped it, the sapphire flakes showered on the petite red-bricked house with tiny, plastic trees embedded on the edges of the snowy-white surface. At the time, it took me a few minutes to read out the engraving, but when I did, I promised myself never to lose this most unique birthday present ever.  

From that moment, this gift became a beloved object of my affection and care. I began to store my memories in it, the good and the bad ones. When I glance into it, I see a large fairground, wrought with tall tattered trees, humming with the sweet yet mournful airs produced by the wind. Then, I see the most enchanting scenario lying afar into the background, where the melodious laughter of children touches and calms the most palpitated of hearts. The trills of mockingbirds and thrushes, far more tragical, fill the air while the nectary aroma of buzzing flowers swiftly enters the nostrils. This is a memory from when I was just eight, and we visited the park for a picnic. Since childhood, I have loved reading books. On the red-white tessellation sheet, I was lying down, with my father narrating parts of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to me. I was just getting introduced to Willy Wonka when I saw Eves entering the park with a basket full of doughnuts. 

There I saw, sitting under the shade of an ancient Ash, examining the merry bluebells, my elder sister. She speculated the beauty hidden in everything, appreciating even the thorns for fulfilling their duty of protecting the rapturous red roses. She had light blue eyes, pixie raven black hair, and a silent, commanding demeanor. As I ran towards her, she asked me to tell her about my book and greeted me as if utterly annoyed by me, concealing that ecstatic joy below in her golden heart. We played tag for a few minutes, as she pretended to be a crocodile chasing me. Her innuendo was quite good: the wiggling fingers and the growls arising in her throat did actually scare me. Then we talked about my day and how Jack, my best friend, was being mean that day. She told me about her water park trip, and how she took all these huge slides with her friends. She was quite daring, adventurous. 

Whenever I think about her, these few words enter my mind,

So Dauntless, So Delightful, So Dead. 

Though I try to compel myself to get up and go to work, my mind wanders at those bittersweet distant memories. I now regret all the moments I chose to invest in work instead of with her. Guilt, remorse, and despair run through my veins, asphyxiating me. So, I choose to turn the magical snow globe instead, for solace, comfort, and hope. 

The sky, phantom-like and dark, is wrought with cumulonimbus, monstrous clouds, indicating an ensuing storm. Residing in New York, engrossed in my work as I was, I refused to talk to my mother, even though it was her first call in two years. After around ten rings and forty messages, I finally took the call, pretending to be casual, or as casual as I was able to be. 

But when I saw my dear sister, lying in an embroidered casket, lifeless, vacant, and white, I broke down. My mind became occluded with bitter feelings of remorse, guilt, and anger. I kept reassuring myself that she is not dead, that her body is still flushed with colors, her cheeks are red, her eyes blue, her smile peach. However, when I touched her, she was cold, pale, and unyielding. I squeezed her hands with all my vigor, hoping that if I do it hard enough, I will summon life back into her, but I didn’t. For the first time in my life, I found myself powerless. I found myself completely and uselessly impotent. I still do. 

The first time I saw her dead body, I stayed awake the whole night being near her, narrating her the tales of my adventures in New York, often apologizing for not involving her in them. Often, I found my sick body convulsing and seizing tumultuously, and briny tears trickling down my cheeks, as I tried to let her know that I'm sorry for not being there for her. 

 All those years I ignored my parents, driven by hatred towards them, the hatred that blinded me from seeing my own sister. God! Had I been close to her, understood how she felt, helped her recover, told her that she is not a failure, that she deserves much more than what society ascribed her, I would have saved her. The mother told me that she was suffering from clinical depression and that she tried to contact me but I was nowhere to be found. She also informed me about her book receiving immense criticism, and the surprising divorce, two of the many things which propelled her into trauma. After months of suffering, she left the house with nothing but a photo of our family and ended the life which was so beautifully bestowed on her. Yet for so many months before her suicide, she succeeded in maintaining a semblance of optimism and hope. Mother told me that she craved to see me and tie the loose ends in our relationship in her last few months but alas! I wasn’t there for her, and she died in hope of reuniting with me in heaven. Only if I had talked to her, seen beyond my own hatred and loss, I may have been able to save a soul. 

For most of the night, I found myself reassuring her lifeless body that it’s going to be okay, that I will right everything no matter what. But at last, I realized the truth, and there was nothing but despair, guilt, and dejection lingering in the thick air. 

I flip the snowglobe, so that it is upside down, and start to inscribe some words on that silvery surface.

Now, after four months, I sometimes still find myself reassuring, nobody in particular, that it will be alright, that I will revive her and even bring her back from the dead and life will be colorful again. Looking into that snowglobe was just an excuse, a way, to peer into the beautiful memories which reside permanently in my mind. At those moments, petty, useless tears again stain my cheeks and various inexplicable sensations my mind. Yet there are times when sad happiness overwhelms me when I actually look forward to the future. At those times, I commemorate the happy moments I spent with her, like that sweet evening in that fairground. But I learned something important that day, which I etched onto this piece of metal for my future self to remember. 

When your past is haunting and your future uncertain, the best thing to do is find pleasure in the simplest of things, like those occasional laughs while talking to your friends, or those awkward jokes with your parents. 

So that’s what I did.