Until the Day I Die

It hadn’t been my fault that she died. It was never in my control. Now standing with my feet at her grave remorse overwhelms me like a wave threatening to drown me. All of the mean things I said over the years, biting things, cannot be apologized for now. Now that she’s gone.

When someone tells me how close we were, it doesn’t matter. In times of sadness, it seems like only the bad leaps out at me. Overwhelms me. Won’t go away. It’s like a lion ready to pounce, but it never does. I’m just waiting in my guilt for something to come. Something to take me away from all this. I wait, but it never comes.

He was not tall and slender as I’d imagined. He was actually rather stocky and muscular. I bumped into him at the buffet table, trying to pick olives out of the salad. He runs the orphanage a few blocks from my house, almost all by himself. Casual in a t-shirt and slacks he doesn’t exactly fit the picture of orphanage director. No black suit or top hat, no monocle. This type of person is rarely true unless in a tale, never the less it’s how I’d imagined him. He was actually rather muscular, a fatherly figure you’d like to have, one who’s played football and knows how to have fun. At the same time however could cradle a baby with the same type of love and affection that comes from a caring heart.

Inching towards the buffet table, I edged towards him.

“It’s real sunny outside isn’t it? I mean with how rainy it was supposed to be,” he quietly muttered glancing up at me, as if afraid to hurt my feelings. “I, I’m real sorry about your sister. I know how hard that can be.”

“Thanks,” I said darting my eyes quickly away from his face in an attempt to hide the sorrow so blatantly mirrored in his face.

Nearing the end of the buffet table, I followed my mother up the straight tan carpet to the table for the immediate family. But I changed my mind. She’s gone. Why let people continuously come up and tell me again and again that she’s gone? They’re trying to console me, but all they do is inform me in different way what I already am aware of, she’s never coming back.

Changing my course, I headed back along the long buffet table grabbing an extra slice of bread and taking a seat next the orphanage man. At least he realizes that I am grieving.

Despite my original interpretation he did not turn out to be the quiet type. Rather, he made my cry. Not because he reminded me of my loss, but because he reminded me of what I lost. My sister adored children and had volunteered at his orphanage nearly every free day she had. When she died, I was positive she took with her some child’s hope of being her child someday.

“Mr. Allura,” I began “Maybe I could volunteer at your orphanage.”

“You really want to?” he asked, clearly surprised.

“Yes.”

“Well, if you’re anything with kids like Kesley was, then yes, I’d be very excited to have you.”
At the mention of my sister’s name, I glanced down at my plate, pushing my fork through my mashed potatoes.

“Oh, I’m sorry…” Mr. Allura trailed off.

“So it’s all set then,” I replied, quickly changing subjects as not to be pitied.

“Yes, you’ve got a deal,” he replied.



Over my life I’ve realized that everywhere you go, even if it’s just because of the way they say hello, or a certain something in their smile, you discover one person with whom you bond. One person who just feels right. I found that little person here. A small Mexican boy with brown hair and pudgy legs and cheeks. He had a small smile and a way of making witty comments that he doesn’t himself understand. This little boy stole my heart the moment I walked in the door my first day. When Mr. Allura asked if I knew a family that could foster him, I said yes, I knew the perfect person.

“I would love to foster Chester, Mr. Allura” I replied immediately.

Bringing Chester home for the first night wasn’t as tough to explain to my father as I’d expected. Having taking classes during my homeschooled years on child care I was legally allowed to foster a child on my own, what I wasn’t sure of though was if he would mind a little boy living in his house. My mother is often away from England visiting the states, usually California. My dad; usually working. The only opinion that really mattered was that of our house keepers of nearly twelve years; Kate. I had trouble convincing Kate over the phone that it was a good idea, but once I brought Chester through the door I had no trouble convincing her.

He immediately walked over to Kate, took her wrinkled hand and asked “Miss Karen, where is this lady going to stay?”
Kate stared down at him. Unable to admit she had been wrong, she said squarely:

“Well I suppose he can stay. Be a good experience for you.” The minute she turned around to continue scrubbing the table I perceived a small smirk trace her face. She was quite fine with our new house guest.

Over the next few weeks I began to realize that Chester had never truly had a home. He was perfectly oblivious and yet innocent to decent manners and curious about every object and matter about the house. The first night he spent in our house he wandered into my bedroom and was sitting on my bed. Leaving strict orders for him to stay there I left him on his own (one of my first mistakes in early child rearing.) I then went off to wash up for bed.

Coming back to my room I found more than one surprise waiting for me. My antique bronze wire bird cage hung open. My brown speckled chickadee had apparently gone out the double window. One small bottle of perfume lay spilling out onto the floor, filling the room with an over sweet smell of lilac and honey-suckle. Chester stood in the corner of my bedroom on my wooden stool and grinned, bright red lipstick smeared down his arms and legs. I sighed and took his pudgy hand in mine. I stared into his eyes and did the second worst thing after leaving him alone in my room. I didn’t scold him. I simply led him into the bathroom, washed off his arms and legs, scrubbed the perfume as best as I could from my floor. I allowed myself a small amount of time to console myself over the loss of my canary, and then promptly tucked him into bed for the night.

Somehow the outlandish idea that this was simply a first night shenanigan led me to believe that all would be better in the morning. This hardly prepared me for what I would find to be a regular daily schedule around the house.

As the days and weeks went on, I began to overlook his “curiosity killed the cat” lifestyle. Chester seemed to be accustomed to playing. I began to not only adore his cuteness, but to love him. I loved him for his newly acquired respect for kittens, after the cat down the street gave him what for. I loved him for his need to rescue and take outside every spider or fly found trapped in the house. I loved him for his excitement and curiosity to how sewing machines or televisions work. I loved him for his unconditional love for me.



Three years ago I fell in love with this little boy. Three years ago I took him into my home as a foster child. Three years ago he brought back happiness I thought I’d never have again after my sister’s death. Now it’s time to visit what I haven’t visited in over three years. Memories of my sister I’ve visited countless times, but not her grave. The many things Chess, as I’ve come to call him and my sister have in common are unbelievable. These brought me here today.

“She would have really liked you, your aunt.” I said, stroking his dark hair.

“Really?”

“Really. If she were…still here today, I’m pretty sure she would be your mother instead of me. She really loved children.”

Chess just stood there, taking all I had said into consideration. Finally he responded, simply stating:

“Well I’m glad you decided to keep me.”

“So am I.”

The little boy that stole my heart the moment I walked into the orphanage has continued to until today. He is my little boy now. He’s mine, because of my sister. And just like my sister, I’ll love him until the day I die.