Back to the Sun

I am not an early riser. Not in the productive sense anyway. I’m an insomniac, so if I manage to sleep at all it’s inconsistent and rarely restful in the way I wish it was. I have never been able to be an early-to-bed, early-to-rise type of person. I have never even been able to be a consistent night owl, staying up late and sleeping in. I sleep when I can, and when my brain allows, and then I usually wake up feeling no better than when I fell asleep.

Today, this doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that I slept fitfully and that I’m not even sure I ever drifted off all the way. It doesn’t matter that my bones ache and creak as if I were much older than I am. None of that matters today.

Today, before the sun was even close to rising, I got out of bed and wrapped myself in layers upon layers of clothing in hopes it would stave off the cold of the winter outside. The door creaked on the way out, loud in the quiet night, and it startled me.

I didn’t have far to go, only down the steps and around the house to sit on the front lawn. The grass was damp and cold as I lowered myself down, shifting to sit as comfortably as I could. I ended up with my legs out in front of me, my arms back to support me, and my head tilted back to look up as I waited.

“It must have rained last night,” I say aloud, quietly, to no one.

It is still pitch dark, but as my eyes adjust I can see the outline of the mountains in the distance. They cut across the sky, huge and jagged and familiar. I never get tired of looking at them, no matter how much I get tired of everything else. I never get tired of it, even if sometimes it hurts to look at them.

“There’s so much snow on top of the mountains,” I whisper. “Even this early in the season.”

I don’t know why I do this every year. I can’t even say if it helps me or not. Maybe it’s because my sister believed there was a God, and thus believed in an afterlife. It has been a long time since I could have faith in such a thing, but I have to admit there is comfort in the idea that she can still see me in some way. Even if I don’t really believe it.

Maybe I do it because I know that if I had been the one to die first, that she would do things like this for me. Maybe once a year she would light up a cigarette, even though she doesn’t smoke. Maybe she would people-watch in a cafe or go buy a book that would sit on her shelf and she would never read. She would probably pick one of the things that she would joke about or make fun of me for and do it one day a year. More than likely she would speak to me, fully believing I could hear her in the afterlife, and cry. She definitely would. She was kind like that.

The sky is lightening, ever so slightly. The stars close to the horizon aren’t as clear as before. I can feel the cold biting at the small bits of exposed skin on my face and body, seeping slowly through my clothes despite my best attempts. I do not move.

“God, it’s cold out,” I mumble.

I am not someone who was ever very good at handling pain. When something painful happened to me throughout my entire life, I would force myself to not think about it and move on. I would shove it down and wait until my brain forgot it. I am ashamed that I instinctively grieve this way as well, despite my best efforts. Thinking of my sister causes me pain, so I shy away from the thought of her. Especially right after, I could not think of her, or I would be unable to function at all.

That is likely another reason I am out here, freezing my ass off as I wait for the sun. For a faithless person like me, I remember those I’ve lost for the sake of their memory, not out of a belief that they are still around. Though I speak words aloud as if my sister can hear, there is no part of me that believes that she can. Perhaps it is funny of me, someone who spends much of their life forcing themselves to forget, to say that I value memory. I am not sure how to defend myself, except that I cannot let myself let go of her completely, but I am not strong enough to think of her everyday. Not even when she first passed.

As I watch the sun rise over the mountains, a sight that my sister loved more than anything else, I pay my respects in both her way and my own way. I speak to her as if she was here, because she would want me to. And I force myself to remember, because a memory is all she is anymore.

I suppose in the end I do it all as a way of remembering her. I suppose the specific details as to why I have selected such a thing don’t matter. It doesn’t matter if it helps me or not. Because though it pains me to think of her, I have not forgotten her. She still existed, and she still lives, deep within my memory. For someone who cannot believe in God anymore no matter how hard they try, this is all I have.

The sky brightens as the sun approaches the edge of the mountains. The stars are fading, yielding to the light of the sun.

“There it is.”

The words barely make it past my lips as the sun breaks over the tops of the mountains. I say the words quietly, dejectedly, as if the sun rising is a disappointment. She used to announce the sun with such passion and excitement when we were children. She would act as if the sun rising was a novelty rather than something that happened every day.

It is so intensely bright that I can’t look straight at it. Instead, I put my hand up to block out the sun, and watch the sky around it. I watch the lights and colors dance off the few clouds in the sky. A quick peek behind me, at the darkest part of the sky, confirms that the stars have gone for the day.

She and I have always been very different. During this early morning, I think of her and it hurts so bad that a sob pushes out of my chest. Tears well and spill out of my tired eyes as I force myself to really remember. I know that if I had been the one to die, she would have cried for me and mourned for me and missed me way more than I deserved. I know she would have thought of me fondly as she cried, and would let herself feel it for far longer than I am capable.

I am glad at least that I can give her this. I have always fallen short in a lot of ways, but not today. Today I will cry, I will speak to her, and I will watch the sunrise. I will let the ache in my chest consume me even though it’s so bad I can’t breathe. I will remember the way that she loved me, warmly and unconditionally, and in a way that I have never known since.

By the time the sun is well past risen, and I have calmed my heaving sobs, my whole body aches from the cold and lack of movement. Standing up and leaving feels like saying goodbye again, but now that the sun is up, the sense of familiarity is gone. My heavy, aching eyes take one last look at the mountains and the sun in the sky. I whisper a quick prayer to my sister’s God, though I cannot convince myself that those words were heard.

Maybe stalling, I glance to the side, where no one sits beside me. I remember all the times my sister would drag me out to watch the sunrise, and sit beside me with such joyful radiance that I wondered if the sun showed up every day just for her. I remember being jealous of her endless faith and love for life. I remember even as we grew older, and that light never faded from her eyes, that I ached. I constantly wondered why I couldn’t feel that same way. I try not to feel too bitter that she was the one that died young instead of me, because I know she would hate it. I try to shove down that instinctive feeling, because to wish such a thing on the anniversary of her death feels disrespectful.

Instead I push myself to my feet. I move slowly, but still feel weak and lightheaded from exhaustion and grief. Not quite ready to turn around, I stare at the sun, radiant and beautiful and bright.

“I love you,” I say aloud, to my sister. Though I do not believe it, there is still a distant part of me that hopes she can hear. That she was right about God. 

The burn has returned behind my eyes as the tears push their way forward, but I squeeze them shut and try to pull myself together.

I turn my back to the sun and go back inside.