The Year My Sister Became a Swan

*** I am poking at a speculative memoir. This is part one of a chapters. ***

I stand at the threshold of my parents’ house. I have been here before. Don’t open the door, my mind whispers. If I don’t open the door, I will never know. The bliss of ignorance. But the knob has already turned. The door falls open. My father is there. It begins again.

My father, a stout man with black hair and serious eyes, chokes out, “there has been an accident.” Accident… If it had been anyone but him, I would think it an April Fools joke. But coming from him, the word hangs thick in the air, echoing and reverberating. “Accident, accident, accident…” I want to breathe fire on the word, incinerate it, eradicate it from my life, from being true, from the new reality of what my family will become.

The year was 1995. Joy, a high school Spanish teacher, was in Costa Rica as one of the chaperones for her school's International Club. They had taken the group white water rafting on the last day… THE LAST DAY. And it was beautiful. But rafts collided, sending everyone into the swirling chaos of the rapids. All around were sounds of shouting and water breaking on rocks and animals in the jungle. The adrenaline of the calamity that was going on making it impossible to know anything.

What we do know:  A man drowned, he died.

Joy might've dove back in. Joy, who was a very good swimmer, might've been pulled under by the drowning man. But we will never know for sure.

We also know they found her body floating, face down. They pulled her out. She was dead. Too long in the water. But they revived her. A miracle! (The miracle she could have used, was not drowning in the first place.) An ambulance bouncing over rough terrain. She survived, survived, survived...

Joy, in a coma; Joy, out of the coma. I was not there. Her voice changed; she changed; she was not the Joy I knew. She became other. The accident caused her to transform.

“You have to be the big sister,” she said to me in a moment of clarity, before her transformation was complete. I watched as her neck arched and stretched and feathers sprout all over her body. She squawked as wings blossomed where arms had been. Her legs thinned, her feet flattened and spread out. She became awkward and unsteady on land. Her words were barely intelligible as they poured forth from her beak. “They need you, you’re the oldest now. You have to take care of them.”

But I didn’t know how. I was too busy wallowing; too busy avoiding. My parents turned to paper. I only saw my younger sisters when I would squint. They were so far away. My eyes went black, unseeing. My sisters changed too. One became a veil of darkness and silence. The other was a smile so tight she cracked at the edges. And Joy had become a swan.

Feathers landed on everything. Everything.

The care and feeding of the swan fell to my mother. She rarely asked for help though we knew she needed it. I did not offer. She did her best, but there are no manuals on how to care for your swan daughter. Feed, shelter… but what happens when she flies into a rage? What happens when the swan who was your oldest daughter attacks your youngest daughter? What do you do when the whole family is covered in bruises? How do you explain the feathers everywhere; the beak marks; the three feet of water in the basement?

The water in the basement...

The basement flood broke me and my mom. Sewage water drowned my belongs; my writing. It destroyed much of what had been saved of Joy before her accident; before her transformation into a swan. We cried. My mother and I held each other and we cried. The swan swam.

My father, the engineer, focused on fixing things. He could not fix his daughter who was now a swan, his daughter with blackened eyes, his daughter who had become a dark room, or his daughter who’s smile shattered inside her heart. But he could gather people to empty and clean the basement. He could fix the basement.

It began again… I went back to the basement. It was fixed, but the same. Nightmares waited there. I opened my eyes, no longer unseeing, but everything was faded. I tried to help my mother with my swan sister; gathering feathers; cleaning; trying to understand her.

But my swan sister swam further away.

Dying Rainbow

I dyed

My hair

Rainbow colors

Because it was fun

Because I loved to see

people smile and giggle

When they saw my hair

But after tragedy

A cat dying

The killing of Joy

I shaved my head

Then a second cat

And an aunt died

Sad, wanting to hide

I instead covered my head

With scarves, hats, and hoods

No more bright rainbow colors

For I have not found happiness

Though there are sparks

With caring friends

A new found dog

And a foster cat

But my hair has

Been growing

The grayest hue

It has ever been

In the grays are

Flecks of silver

Persist in

Shining

Through my grief

Someday, I’ll share my silver

The Difference of a Day

Yesterday was brilliant

There was Tea & Friends & Cats & Reading & Bunnies & Conversation & Art 

I only had one big cry

I dealt with issues at work

And difficult patrons

With panache and a smile

I even had a moment 

During a hug

When a friend said sorry

Where I thought

"For what?"

Before it all came back

I forgot to be SORROW for a moment

It was delightful in that sense that I 

Was filled with LIGHT

But today

I woke up crying

And in migraine pain

Waking from nightmares 

Of dead cats

Of dead sister

Waking to feelings

Of hopelessness

Of helplessness

Waking to fears

Of what else

What comes next

Glad for the day off

I laid in bed courting sleep

Until after one pm

I am measuring the day 

In increments

In accomplishments

Things so small 

I'd normally 

Not notice

I got up

I fed the bunnies

I'm eating healthy

I emptied the top rack of the dishwasher

(Bending down hurts my head

The bottom rack can wait)

I have cried

So many times

I've lost count

I am glad

No one else is home

To witness

Today 

I hold onto yesterday

As proof of light

Listing, part I

Five Emotions:

• First and foremost, sorrow. No, that's not right... SORROW That's better. Well, not better... nothing is better. Everything is worse. (Hence, the sorrow.) It feels like a wet, sticky blanket and it's heavy, oh so heavy. I can't take it off, it shrouds me. There are several very tangible points of sorrow - my cat dying, my sister being crushed to death in her bed by a truck, my other sister losing her home because a truck drove through it, that same sister's dog dying, my missing my chance to go to the International Book Fair, my other cat dying, the five year anniversary of my mom's sudden death, not being nearby for my dad and my sisters - and each one another layer of  heavy, sticky, wet blanket of SORROW. It is constantly with me, heavy and dripping toxic sludge on those around me. I try to keep it all to myself, but I can't. It's too obvious; too prevailing; too consuming. It oozes and drips on all who get too close. It's like a cold... contagious upon exposure.
• Next comes the emotion that is not mine, but is directed at me. While I try to hide my sorrow or even just express it without emotion, it affects them. They can feel it when I am near, hear it in my voice, see it on my face. I can see them reacting to it before I even speak of it. PITY is what their expressions scream out. I hate pity. I always have. It is a deep and soulless emotion. It is the bastard child of arrogance and sorrow. It has little purpose. But sometimes, it's impossible to avoid.
• Third, GUILT. You might notice the missing my chance to go to the International Book Fair wedged in between my sister's dog dying and my cat dying. And I know, I know, I shouldn't feel guilty. But I do. When there are so many horrible things to be sad about, how do I have a right to be sad about that? There are so many worse thing going on in the world and even in my own life. But I am sad and frustrated about it. I also feel that GUILT because I am here in Illinois, far from where the legal proceedings are. I can't be with my sister, I'm not there to stare the guy who killed my other sister in the face. 
• Fourth, ANGER. But, right now, the anger is muted, it's buried in the sorrow, though I see little peeks of it. Anger at life, anger at the asshole who drove the truck, anger that I can't just be there. 
• Fifth is ANGST. According to some dictionary somewhere in internetlandia, "a feeling of deep anxiety or dread, typically an unfocused one about the human condition or the state of the world in general." Now this may seem weird since there is so much closer to home to feel anxious about, and I do, but it does leave one feeling angst about the rest of the world too.