“Clean out the junk closet, please, Ojana. Your great-aunt is coming.” Mother said. I sighed. The junk closet was the area where all our old belongings went; all the old toys, books and other knickknacks got lost in there at some point or another.
Great-Aunt Adina was a stuffy old lady that always poked her long nose into other people’s business, especially her own family’s. Every couple of years we used to go to her house, which was just as stuffy as the owner. We hadn’t seen her in years, though, since she didn’t come to the funeral. I shook my head, trying to get rid of thoughts of the funeral. “Why is she coming?”
“Because she is, Ojana. Now clean up the junk closet, we’ve got a lot to do.” Mother snapped. She hated Great-Aunt Adina with a passion. Rolling my eyes, I left the warm kitchen and went to the end of the hallway. Bracing myself, I opened the junk closet. Surprisingly, however, nothing fell on top of me, though they were all piled up in a hazardous mess at the bottom. Reaching up, the stack stood slightly above my head, pulled the first thing from the top, a small book entitled Endless Night. I smiled, remembering when I would read the book underneath my blanket, when I was supposed to be sleeping. How I scared my sister to death, telling her short bits of the story.
Flooded by sudden melancholy, I put the book down in a corner. I grabbed the next thing, a small top, and put it next to the book. I worked quickly, afraid that if I stopped I would remember. Almost in autopilot, I separated the junk into different stacks. After an hour, the stuff in the closet had come down to be about the height of my nose.
I picked up a slightly heavy item, and looked at it, ready to put it into a stack. Then I froze. In my hand I held a golden angel. Her wings were long, quite like a bird’s, and her face was slightly stern. I had always imagined her scolding an unseen young boy, maybe her son. Her golden dress was long, cascading down her body, the small bits of colored glass that were embedded in it shimmered through the years of dust. Her small toes peeked out from the dress’ folds, as if shy.
I turned it over, and my hand started to shake. There written on the back in a neat pen were the words Marana Agnek Dehler. I sat on the ground, still staring at the words. Marana Agnek Dehler, Marana Agnek Dehler, Marana Agnek Dehler. The name of my sister floated in my head. Closing my eyes, I let the tears fall, not bothering to wipe them away.
We had been walking home from school. I was 13, in eighth grade, and Marana had been 9, in fourth grade. As always, I had left school right after the bell rang, going to my sister’s elementary school and picked her up. We walked home together, Marana talking about what had happened in school that day, or something funny she had read, or what they had learned. I listened silently. My family had learned soon after she was born that no one could get a word in edgewise once she started talking.
Marana was as talkative as normal, and we were happily walking home. The florist, Ms. Harper, had offered us some flowers, like she always did, and we accepted them politely, as always. We reached the corner and saw Ava, one of Marana’s friends, on the other side. She called to us, and Marana called back.The quiet street usually had no cars, so I let Marana go run to her friend, first checking to make sure no cars were coming.
Marana ran, her hair bouncing up and down. When she reached the middle of the road, she started to slow down. I wondered often that if she hadn’t slowed down, if she had just kept running, maybe she would be alive. Maybe she would be helping me clean out the closet. But that didn’t happen. Marana slowed down, her eyes on her friend. A little too late, I yelled at her to hurry up, to run, because a car was coming. But she didn’t hear me. She kept on walking, and a car ran into her.
The car had kept going, afraid of the police, and I ran to my sister, who had gone flying onto the sidewalk. Ava had gotten there first and was crying, holding Marana’s hand. As I ran, crying, I pulled out my phone, calling the police. The lady somehow understood what I was trying to say, and had told me help would be there soon. I called my mother next, as I knelt beside Marana.
I held her hand, looking at her bruised and broken body, and told my mother what happened. She had come in her car, beating the ambulance by 30 seconds. They had loaded Marana onto the ambulance, taking Mother and me with them, and had driven to the hospital, where Marana was rushed into a room, and we were told to sit in the waiting area.
We stayed there the whole night, one taking a nap while the other stood guard, and then switching, waiting for the nurses and doctors to tell us something. At one o’clock in the morning, they did. But the news was not what we were expecting. Marana was dead. My only sister was gone.
Mother and I had cried and cried. We had seen Marana’s broken body, her dull and lifeless eyes, but we couldn’t believe it. We had kept thinking that Marana would wake up, that she would smile at us and start talking, but she never did. We had the funeral that Sunday. The whole family came, all my grandparents, my aunts, my uncles, and my cousins. All except for Great-Aunt Adina. She never even bothered to reply.
We all took that hard. Great-Aunt Adina had been Marana’s favorite relative. She had always said that Great-Aunt was kind in her own way. And Marana had been Great-Aunt Adina’s favorite niece. She had even given Marana the golden angel as a birthday present, saying that it had seemed perfect for Marana.
Now, ten years later, the golden angel that had brought Marana such joy was just a reminder. A reminder of Marana, and Great-Aunt Adina’s kindness; a reminder of what had been. I stood up, trying to wipe away my tears. I walked out of the hallway, into the living room, with its big stone fireplace, and placed the angel on the mantel. Mother walked in to see what I was doing, and froze. “Is that the angel?”
“Yeah,” I said softly. “That’s the one.”
“Oh, Ojana,” My mother said, just as softly. “Oh, Ojana.”
“We need a reminder, Mother. A reminder of Marana. So we never forget her.” I said. Mother started to cry then, she wrapped me in a hug and sat me on the couch. She got up and went to a big cabinet. Choosing one of the albums, she came back to the sofa and sat down. “What about cleaning up? And Great-Aunt Adina?”
“They can wait.” Mother said. She opened the album. On the first page was a picture of two-year-old Marana, smiling at the camera. I laughed. She flipped the page, and I saw Marana in the bath, splashing water and having a good time. We kept flipping the pages, bringing back the memories of Marana.
The doorbell rang. I got off the couch, stretching my stiff legs, and opened it. Outside stood Great-Aunt Adina. “Great-Aunt Adina!” I said loudly, so that Mother could put away the album. “Hello!”
She frowned at me. ‘I’m not losing my hearing, thank you very much. You don’t have to yell.” She stepped into the house. I led her to the living room, where Mother waited, sitting on the couch, with the album nowhere to be seen.
“Hello, Aunt Adina.” Mother said, her voice cold. “What a pleasure to meet you.”
“Yes, yes, my dear.” She settled on the couch opposite Mother. “It’s a pleasure. How’s Ojana doing?”
“I’m doing fine, Great-Aunt.” I put in. Great-Aunt Adina always acted as if I was not there.
“Very good, my dear. Now,” She said, turning. “where is that darling Marana?” I shook with anger. She hadn’t even bothered to read the invitation, apparently.
“Marana is . . . not here.” Mother said, with some pause.
“Oh, is she out then?” Adina asked, oblivious.
“No. She has . . . moved on.” Mother said, her voice shaking with just as much anger as I had.
“Moved on? As in, she passed away?” Great-Aunt Adina froze.
“Yes.” Mother said shortly.
“Oh, my dear. But when?” Aunt Adina said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
My voice shook as I replied. “Ten years ago.”
Her eyes widened. “But why didn’t you tell me?”
“We did tell you, Great-Aunt. We called you, and we sent you an invitation to her, her funeral. But you didn’t reply.” My voice started to crack. “Marana looked up to you. She said you were kind, that you were nice. She loved the golden angel that you gave her.” I gestured to the mantel. “She looked at it every night before going to sleep. She adored you. But you ignored her. You, Great-Aunt Adina. You ignored her.”
I took a deep breath. I had never talked this much to Aunt Adina in my life. And I never exploded like that. Ever.
I looked at Great-Aunt Adina and saw that she was crying. Tears ran down her face, and collected at the end of her pointy nose. “You’re right, Ojana. I have been a terrible Great-Aunt. I put society ahead of my family and I regret that. I will never get back those lost years with Marana, but I can be their for you, in your adult life and onward. Please? Will you,” She corrected herself. “No, can you forgive me?”
I looked at her pleading face. I knew that this was the point where I made the biggest decision in my entire life. Whether I forgave my great-aunt, or not. Then I looked at my mother’s stony face. I knew that she would not, could not, ever forgive Great-Aunt Adina. And I knew that I, too, could never forgive her.
“I’m sorry, Great-Aunt Adina. But I can’t forgive you, not now, not ever.” I said. Adina got up.
“Then I’ll let myself out.” She said, her voice shaky with unshed tears. “Goodbye, Ojana. Goodbye, Madalena.”
“Goodbye, Great-Aunt Adina.” I said. She left then, and I knew, in that moment, that I would never see her again. But that only hurt me slightly.
The door shut. “I never knew you to explode like that.” Mother said.
“I guess I just had a lot of pent up feelings.” I replied.
“That’s alright. It’s good to explode once in awhile.” I smiled at her.
“Thank you.” I said.
“You’re welcome. Now, come. Let’s go to sleep.” Mother stood up.
I laughed. “I’ve stayed up later than this, Mother. I’m a big girl.”
“Well, 23-year-olds need their sleep just as much as 8-year-olds.” She walked me to my room. “Good night, Ojana.”
“Good night, Mother.” I said. I changed and slipped into bed. Just before I fell asleep, I remembered the golden angel. “Good night, Marana.”
Articles About Everything 