A Quiet Goodbye

I was thirteen the first time I saw someone die. It was winter and it snowed that day— the heaviest snowfall in Britain for sixteen years. I’m thankful for that snow, because if our town hadn’t been covered in a silky white sheet, I would have been at school, and that’s where I would have been when my sister left this world.

Over the past three years, my sister’s strength ebbed away, each day a new challenge. Her vibrant laughter turned into weak smiles, and her once energetic steps slowed to a painful shuffle. In the last three months, the pain in her eyes became a constant, and even the simplest tasks like holding a spoon or sitting up in bed, seemed insurmountable.

Illustrated by Zyta Gudalewska

I woke up to the sight of thick snowflakes drifting past my window, transforming the outside world into a winter wonderland. I imagined building snowmen with my friends, the crunch of fresh snow under our boots, and the thrill of launching the perfect snowball. This much snow meant no school, I thought, as I rushed to get dressed, a smile already spreading across my face.

My name was called urgently from my sister’s room, so I raced down the hall to find my parents sitting either side of her bed, each clasping a hand. As I entered, I was struck by how ghostly pale her face had become, almost blending in with the white pillowcase. Tubes snaked from her arms to the beeping machines around her bed, their rhythmic hum a stark contrast to the stillness of her fragile body. The nurse hovered nearby, her eyes betraying a sorrowful resignation.

I paused once inside her room, waiting for an explanation as to why we were all gathered here at 7 on a Monday morning while the ground was covered in white crystals. The nurse’s words were a blur as I watched my mother squeeze my sister’s hand, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. My sister’s smile, though faint, seemed almost serene, a beacon of calm amidst the storm of worry and grief. Even in her final moments, she managed to radiate a quiet dignity, making the sterile room feel a bit less cold. Only she could smile on her deathbed; only she could make illness seem so glamorous.

I sat at the end of her bed, legs crossed, fiddling with a stray piece of thread on her blanket. I remembered how she often joked about wanting to leave a lasting impression, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “If I’m going out, I’m going out with a bang,” she’d say, her voice full of determination. She always wanted her last words to be memorable and she never let me down.

Before she drifted off into a dreamless and forever sleep, she whispered closely so only I could hear “see you on the other side, Kido.”

And that was that, the last words my sister spoke to me, to anyone. A quiet goodbye.