After

Marcus

I am still here, but so is the pain.

It is endless; limitless; infinite.

Sometimes I think I can't go on. But then I think of her mother, telling me that she would be disappointed in me. And I think that she is right.

And I think her name. I scream it into the darkness until everything hurts. And when my sense has returned, I whisper it into the recesses of my mind, because a whisper is more powerful than any scream will ever be.

I remember her saying that to me, once. When we were younger and smaller and much more naive. Though I think Syl has always been wise. She's always been older than she had any right to be.

We were walking through my backyard, about ten years old, maybe eleven or twelve. Her hand was in mine as we walked side by side, slowly, carefully: me, too small to carry her, and her too stubborn to do anything but walk.

I was talking to her, and she winced and asked me to speak softer. And I asked her why. And she asked me, "What do you feel when you yell?"

It made no sense to me in that moment. I was young and confused and she was always so clever, so much smarter than me, though she could never see it.

I shrugged. But her eyes looking into mine, large and as pale as the rest of her, and the slight smile on her lips, was encouraging. I wanted to please her. To make her see that I was not stupid, that I could be clever too.

"Invigorated," I said, after a small moment. I didn't even know what the word meant, but it was long and imposing and it seemed to impress her.

She nodded. "And how do you feel when you whisper?" she said, in that same tone that she always used, as soft as the rest of her was pale.

"Small," I said, immediately.

She smiled, and it was lovely and bright. Those smiles brought her to life, and I prided myself on being able to coax them into being.

"Exactly," she said. I helped her over a log, a tree that dad had cut down some time in the past week and had been either too tired or too lazy to move, afterwards. I don't know why he cut it down: it seemed a waste to me.

"Anything that can make you feel small," she told me, watching the ground as she stepped with small, careful feet, "is powerful."

"I don't like feeling small, though," I told her.

"Sometimes, it's good to be small," she said.

That hadn't made sense to me in that moment, but it does now. And it makes me sad to remember it. She could have been a philosopher or a scientist or something amazing, with all the wisdom and snippets of prose stashed away in her mind.

I always wanted to grow tall and strong like my father. I got my wish, and she got hers. Because, when you're so far from earth, you can't help but look small to everyone you leave behind.