When I was a little girl I thought the whole world was an empty, lonely place. My house was always filled with people from morning to night and we always had someone besides my family over but I never felt truly there. I have two brothers and one sister, but you could say I pretty much grew up with my two brothers. Now, most people will think the sister was older and she wasn’t around much but no, it’s not like that. My sister was the youngest of our family. She had short black hair, black eyes that always had joy in them, and a smile that would make everyone happy.

She was the best thing anyone could have ever given to our family. When she was three years old she became very ill that’s why we always had people in our house. We didn’t know these people and only a few became part of our family. The nurses would be there everyday to watch her and see if she was doing okay, the tv was always on too little kid shows and as we grew up it was harder for us to have a normal life. we moved around because all the houses we lived in, there was always something wrong with the way they were designed so it was harder for my parents to move my sister around the house.

Well one day God decided it was time for my sister to stop suffering, time for the sirens to stop coming to our house. If I count all the times the people came to my house to take my little sister in a stretcher and bring her to the hospital, it would be too many for me and my mother to cope with. (Till this day I still cannot hear sirens: they scare me too much.) That day he chose was December 20th 2008. I don’t know why he would do that to our family but her funeral was on Christmas Eve and now I can’t stand to think of Christmas. I remember one time when I had learned about a defibrillator and I told a therapist we could always bring her back and he looked at me and told me and my brothers that it wasn’t possible. He asked me if we wanted her to die at home or in a hospital. We all said at home, and so it happened we were all sitting on the couch my mum was holding her in her arms and we sat there. I looked up a minute too soon and by the time I looked down the color was gone from her face and I looked at my mum with tears in my eyes and asked if she was dead. Our parents asked me and my brothers to go down to the basement and we did. Upstairs they washed and clean my sister’s body.

Than the funeral home to take her away and my mom and father came downstairs, my mother sitting in a little chair meant for kids her face red from crying. As she put her face in her hands you could tell she would be a different person. After the wake and the funeral our family moved around delicately as if someone was sleeping. We didn’t talk much: only to say how are day was or how we were. We moved after that into a new house, and even then we all felt like we weren’t in real life.

My whole family coped in different ways. I was only eleven so I don’t remember how my brothers and parents did. I know how I did: I got scared I missed my sister and I started seeing things. I used to see her a lot that year. I can’t remember anything clearly enough. I also got really sick--not hospital sick, but sick enough. My mom would tell me my physical state caught up with my emotional state. I don’t know if thought it was true but I went along with it anyway. This was just the start of my life even though I had been alive for eleven years. Having my sister pass away was like a new door was opened to a world I never wanted to exist.

I know everyone who says when someone they love or means a lot to them dies they never have any regret or be extremely sad forever. But somehow even now, being 16 years old, I still feel regret. I could have spent more time with her, read to her more, laughed or make her laugh. I could have done a lot. The biggest thing I regret is not being there mentally, not seeing her last breath, not being able to see her eyes open for the last time, never being able to hug kiss or cherish each moment she was alive. There is always a part of me that says: go back to your sister, hug her one more time before you go to sleep. Don’t forget the sound of the feeding tube, the sound of the beeps and wheels and all the sounds the machines made. Never forget. Never forget. Never forget. I hear myself saying these words everyday.

My family is still sad from our loss. But that didn’t stop us from loving. In 2010 my parents thought about adopting again. In 2012 we knew we would bring another little girl home. Now its 2013, my new sister came home August 24th 2013, and words will never begin to describe how much she means to me. The other day I asked my new sister where Marisol was and she pointed to the sky and said with God.