The raindrops chased each other eagerly down the window, each droplet connecting to the last. I remember the shape of that window: two panels lined with wood that ever so slightly creaked each time the train passed through the countryside and picked up speed. An unshakeable feeling of dread seeped further into my soul, anxiety clouding my every thought. My belongings lay tucked beneath my legs in a worn leather suitcase, its skin creased with age. Amidst the socks and freshly ironed shirts lay a small picture of us, folded in fourths and tucked within a fleece-lined pocket. I imagined the sterile hospital awaiting me, the white wrinkled sheets and the faint scent of rubbing alcohol dancing around my nostrils. I could taste its bitterness on my tongue and the reality I would have to face in visiting her. Still, my blank expression and heavy eyes pressed further on the glass as I tried to drown out the sounds of the train, families conversing and drink carts bumping into every other aisle seat.
I tried to focus on the outside, the fields of emerald blades bathed in sun showers I couldn’t reach. I could see myself so clearly in that grass, spring some time ago. I would chase her around in the unforgiving sun through the meadows behind our childhood home, laughing and screaming as I eagerly ran faster, trying to keep up with her youthful sprints. She would giggle as the overgrown grass prickled at our ankles and stuck to our sweat. Her bouncy auburn hair was soaking up the daylight. “Claire, your dress is going to get filthy,” my mother would insist, and, despite her efforts, my sister and I never failed to pile up a heap of laundry stained with grass and dirt. Our buckled shoes accompanied the small mound with remnants of the outside wedged within their soles. We continued this ritual: each day, we would bask in the sun, running through the seasons as they changed. The leaves would turn a darker shade, matching the brown corduroy straps on my overalls; the ground became drier, and the days grew shorter.
I didn’t want to notice when Claire would slow down, when fits of coughing would erupt from her throat, leaving her hunched to helplessly grab her knees like they were the last thing keeping her standing. Days of running outside turned into hours, then just mere minutes. I didn’t want to look when the sounds of shattered glass echoed against the kitchen floor as my mother raced outside to stop Claire from falling. I pretended not to notice when Claire’s room, once decorated with light floral wallpaper and sewn dolls with yarn hair and flushed cheeks, became overgrown with IV bags and machines that hollered through the night. My eyes screwed shut the night the ambulance lights flashed through my bedroom window; the melted snow kicked against the wheels of the stretcher as men in red uniforms rushed her away. I didn’t look at my mother on the train station platform. I maintained eye contact with the red brick beneath us, her plum dress occasionally swaying in my vision. I wouldn’t let my fingers curl into hers as she held my hand either. “Please go visit her,” she pleaded, squeezing my hand further, aching for a response. I thought back on each memory, as if I could feel Claire by my side. Reclusing into each memory, I began to realize what lay before me.
The train squeaked as it slowed, shaking me out of my trance as my eyes began to well up. I left the train station and trekked down the bustling street. Dragging each foot in front of the other, I headed down the concrete pathway to the hospital that lay ahead. When I arrived, the white lights of the infirmary gleamed against my sweaty face and clammy palms, reality beginning to set in. The doors in front of me slid open, releasing a gust of cool air. I hesitantly stepped through, afraid that too much movement would disturb the stillness around me. I hated hospitals. I hated how they looked, nothing like the sun kissed meadows we raced through. The overgrown grass and its sweet herbal scent were traded for muted walls lined with soft railing and notes of benzoin. “8285, Claire Lee, Patient Room B,” each letter etched into the grainy plastic. My fingers twitched as I let the cool metal simmer on my hands, tightening my grip to ensure the door in front of me wouldn’t slip away. Crossing the threshold, I looked up, letting the bitterness subside. Claire’s pale face and frail hands looked back. I traced the IV strings down to her wrist as I inched closer. Her honey-soaked hair still shone brightly against the dim lamps above. Her eyes met mine. A smile crept across her face, the same one she would flash at me over the dinner table or as she tumbled through the damp pasture. The small picture, once burning a hole in my luggage, now lay on the oak side table next to us, on display for Claire to see. My muscles relaxed as I let out a small exhale, one that only the two of us could hear. I let my fingers curl into hers.
UF PRISM 