I stared down at the sneakers, haphazardly tossed onto her shaggy white rug. They were strung with the lavender colored shoelaces I’d bought her for her eleventh birthday. She’d still worn them, all this time. The corners of my mouth lifted briefly until the same, relentless, traumatic image seared into my brain again.

A blinding flash of bright orange light. The deafening crescendo of a horn. The sharp crack of glass breaking into projectiles. The groan of folding metal. A concrete pillow slamming into my face. The warm tickle of blood sliding down my arm, pooling into my outstretched, weakening hand. And worst of all, the high-pitched shriek of terror flying further and further away from me.

I grabbed onto the edge of her bed frame, letting the cool metal soothe me out of the memory.

Third time today.

I reached into my pocket with my good arm, and pulled out the dark orange bottle of little white ovals the doctor said would make this easier. So far, not so good. But did I even deserve comfort now? I shoved the bottle back in my pocket.

I walked over to her ornate white dresser, where a framed 4x6 of us at Niagara Falls stood prominently. Her little arms were wrapped around my middle. A wide grin lit up her face. I was mid-laugh, awkwardly crouching down to pull her shoulders closer to me. In the top left corner of the light blue frame, black cursive letters spelled out “best friends.” I bit my lip, trying to distract from the heavy lump forming in my throat.

People constantly said we were indistinguishable from one another, even though we were 10 years apart. We’d always laughed that off, but I’d started to see it more now. Maybe it was a just way to keep her closer to me.

I turned towards her door, taking one last look around. I hadn’t told her how much I loved the light pink and yellow daisies she’d painted in the corners of her sky blue walls. They were perfectly shaded, a carbon copy of the flowers that lined the bank of her favorite pond.

I’d seen her coffin for the first time today, stuffed into the back of a hearse parked in the driveway. A plain wooden rectangle containing the last real remnants of her presence on this earth. It didn’t feel right. Something so plain for someone so colorful.

I turned back towards the dresser. Her painting supplies took up the rest of the space behind our picture. I ran my hand along the soft, clean brushes she’d taken such good care of.

She’d often asked me to join her while she was painting. I’d always waved it aside, saying she was the artistic one and I would ruin everything with my clumsy hands. She would argue with me and say she knew I had it in me. It was the last thing she’d said to me before we started our drive to the pond.

I took a slow, deep breath, steeling my resolve, and began to gather a handful of brushes and pastel tubes of paint, easy to identify from how squished they were from use. I took in the corner flowers again, trying to see the details that she saw. I still didn’t think I had it in me, but it was the last thing she had asked of me. I wouldn’t let her down again. I finally walked back through the doorway and headed towards the driveway.