Ani….

How is it like in the land of the living, brother? Pray tell me. I have forgotten the feel of the wind in my face, and the fragrance of the roses in the summer. I have forgotten the freshness of the sakura in spring, and the sound of laughter as it unfolds all around me. I long to see all of that--ALL of that, once more, but I can't seem to.

There are times when I strive to open my eyes, but all I see are endless white skies roiling beneath me as far as I can see. White and clear, wave upon wave of colorless crest. These times I strain my eyes to see, to squint as hard I as I can from my immobile vantage, to see if there are figures I recognize in the transparent bog.

There is never anybody there. Figures come and go and remain faceless, unnamed, just a word in the book of memories dusty in my head. Oh some I recognize, but none reach out to burn something deep inside of me as you do, Ani.

Things you did to me before play like silent movies in front of me, as the endlessly white clouds roil on lazily by. My first strawberry ice cream from your weekly allowance, your scrunched up face when I dropped it accidentally, uneaten. My first Award of Excellence in the field of Mathematics when I was in second grade, and it was you who helped me through the maze of fractions and decimals.

Ani, please don't think that I have forgotten. I am aware that, as in my dream, as in my visions, I remain immobile in this hospital bed, connected to life only by a few tubes and IV units pumping day in and out in the rhythmic dance of life and death. I am aware that my face conveys no message as it peacefully slumbers on undaunted. But I have not forgotten.

Sometimes this dead, blank silence in my mind rifts and the night of the murder of Mother and Father reenacts itself in horrible succession. The joyous bazaar where I wheedled you into getting me those gorgeous earrings flashes itself momentarily before my eyes so fleeting, that it is over before I have even noticed it at all.

The next few scenes, the agonizing memory however, never fails to show up clear and distinguishable as if it were yesterday. Though I know 'yesterday' has been months now, many, many months past that tragic day. These are the times I feel most alone, brother. When I'm suddenly standing in the middle of the cobbled street, in my kimono, your earring in the bag tucked under my arm--the rain in my face--my only thought was how slow it took you to get to the front door.

Which was all the more the better for you.

I was the first one to see their bodies sprawled out, dead and lifeless in the living room floor. I was the first to have my breath taken from my lungs, scared and speechless and drenched in the rain.

Then the lights flicker--I turn to see, but as always, too late. I try to scream…but no words come out. A powerful pain--

And then I am alone. Always alone.

But in the middle of my fears and my inner turmoil, I hear your voice from far away. Far away, yes, but it is distinct enough to give me hope and comfort I can take from no other.

I don't want to be a burden to you, brother. I hear the pain in your voice as only I can hear, only I could have ever heard. I know you are suffering. But don't ever say it was your fault.

Don't ever say "If only I had walked a little faster!" or "If only I had the sense to push her away at the right moment--!". Don't blame yourself for what has happened to me. If you had pushed me over, you'd be the one hit by that madman's car.

Things happen for a reason. Maybe it's to strengthen your resolve and make you fight the injustices in the society. Fate has looked upon you, my brother, and she has seen you to be a formidable weapon against evil. I understand that, for you, it may be a difficult drug to swallow, but you must remain strong, not just for me, but for the countless other who are like me, who are suffering worse--

Because they don't have a brother such as you. They don't have a brother who, even how hopeless, strives to fight for his stricken sister, lying in a comma like a vegetable in the hospital bed.

So Ani, please open up your heart. Open it up as you did when we sat down in the front porch together that August afternoon. Open it up as you did when you shed your tears along with me at the death of our old cat. Open it up as you did when you bought me my very first ice cream.

And brother, no matter what happens--should one day the tubes and the IV units be severed from their links to my body, cutting off permanently the life that I need so badly… please know that I am still listening, listening for your voice calling me through the endless white nothingness that surrounds me.

And somehow, though other figures shall remain hopelessly nameless and faceless for all eternity, your lone figure will stand out in the crowd, turn, and reach out a hand, the strawberry ice cream melting in its cone.