Away

Sheila. A name for a girl, right? To most, yes it is. To me, to I, its more than that. Sheila is, was, my sister. And my deepest regret. She was sweet, full of life. She died at seventeen. She died alone and afraid. She died without saying goodbye. She died because of me. 

Sheila was born when I was three. My hair was brown from my dad, but she inherited my mom's honey blonde hair. Her eyes were dad's though. Such a deep-sea blue that it pierced through any lies and concealment. Sheila's blonde hair grew longer and faster than most girls I knew, and she had a knack for sports. I taught her how to score a goal. Dad taught her how to run a marathon. Mom taught her how to fire a bow. We nurtured her, raised her, taught her the good things in life. But for all our teachings, Sheila still fell victim to the one thing that can overpower everything: Love

Sheila grew up to be a beautiful young woman. At sixteen, she was a great athlete in her track and field school events. While her results were not the perfect, she always performed above averagely. She came to see me off when I was shipped out to Iran. A smiling, tall shape of sisterly love. A hug and a kiss on the cheek was the last show of love for me. I never saw her again until her funeral. What I will do now is to read the letters first Sheila, then my parents sent to me while I was in Iran.