I wish you were telling this story

III. March into the Sun

A few weeks go by, Mami hasn't spoken to me ever since that fight. But today, I found my suitcases in the doorway, and Dad's eyes warming my heart. "You ready?" he asked.

On our way to the airport, I inhaled every single bit of Santo Domingo I could take. I have a love-hate relationship with our city. You don't, you just loved it, the whole island.

If you were telling this story, you would've talked about the creases of the sea just 30 minutes away from wherever you are and how the ocean it's not a stranger to any of us. You would have described the notes of clavo dulce and nuez moscada that we loved to add to our coffee in the numerous cups we had and how sharing was a kind tradition between the islanders.

You would've praised the hands of a dozen ladies whose food lightened the construction workers' mood and city walkers. I would've probably complained about the infinite lines of traffic, making the city so crowded that it made you claustrophobic, and you would've answered how it gave you a chance to blast Alex Ferreira's new album to full volume in the car. You would probably tell the story of the darkest nights in the country, where a million twinkle stars hypnotized you, or maybe, about how the sun here is made of alcohol and sugar, or how our ancestors practiced magic at the rhythm of the drums.

The Dominican Republic is the island blessed by the gods. I'll be back, I promise.

As we arrive at the airport, I feel shivers growing, and Dad tries to warm the icy feeling covering my body with his arms as he says goodbye and makes me promise to call him every day. I take my suitcases in both hands as I make my way through the sea of people.

I hear people laughing, crying, chatting everywhere. As I check-in and pass through customs, my heart only beats tighter and faster. I'm scared, but I'm also thrilled and excited.

When I finally get to the waiting room, I sit down, leaving my backpack on the floor. While I look at my phone re-doing my ponytail, I feel a hand pulling from my pink sweater. "Miss, this fell out of your pocket."

I read my name from the brown envelope as I mouth a thank you to the little kid handing it in.

I open it and read your last words for me.

Dear Ari,

I want to open this letter telling you that I'm so happy that you're my sister.

Ever since you came into this world, I knew that God sent me a partner for life. Can you imagine how cool that is? My life came with my lifetime best friend included. I'm so lucky. Ariel, you don't even know how talented you are. You're so humble and kind, you surprise me every day, and I just remind myself: "She's not a kid anymore."

Thank you for never shutting me up when I spoke non-stop about my new recipes at work, thank you for laughing at my drunk tales and being my ride or die.

The other day I remembered the first time you went into a hospital, you were in first grade, and I refused to go to school because I had to take care of you. I slept on the floor every night, calling the nurses when you couldn't breathe, reading your stories when you couldn't sleep. And that's how I imagine you're feeling right now.

Ari, I'm so sorry that I didn't tell you about any of this. But if there's something that I've learned in these 23 years, is that life, as short as it may be, is meant to be lived, plainly and happily. I spent every second of my life doing what I wanted, and I want you to the same.

I noticed your fake smiles and this whole "perfect daughter" act you've been putting to please Mom and Dad. And all I want you to know is that your happiness comes first. Our human bodies are the most delicate thing we have, and they could break at any point. That's why querida, I want you to know that I know I don't have much time left, but I'm leaving satisfied, and I hope you this doesn't stop you from following your dreams.

Live life in technicolor, give a scent to every moment, a song, and always find the beauty in the small things.

I hope you write a beautiful story.

Con amor,

Tu hermano.