“Release is all I seek,” Sistine thought to herself.

This is Sistine’s persona. She dreams of her last words. She is never happy with life at the present moment, so her mind floats to the future. The world doesn’t understand her mind; I don’t even think she fully grasps what is moving in the inner workings of her brain.

The family she had, never cared for her mental state of mind. Note my use of “had.” They’re technically her blood relatives, but she never understood that connection that I feel with my family. Yet with not knowing the purest form of unconditional love, she still holds so much hope. When she talks about her favorite book or favorite song the light in her eyes somehow shifts. Her shoulders lean in and become engaged with the conversation; her fingers dance with a life of their own. She is light and holds pockets of great joy, and I love her for it. The brightest moments of her life are held by the soft voices at night. In the winter, we would bundle up in all our winter coats, bring some blankets and just lay outside. There would be mostly silence as she would caress the cold grass between her fingers. She never looked so at peace.

The disease didn’t surprise her. Even though her family’s medical history was whispered in rooms that she could not enter, she welcomed the disease as a long lost friend. From the day the doctor told her the diagnosis, it seemed her will for life was renewed.

Everyday we talk about our lives, recounting every memory that we have latched on to. As time passes it proves to be more difficult to recount each memory from the depths of her mind, taking more and more time to mull her thoughts over. Sistine reminisces on one of her first memories. The words flow together and she never loses the enthusiasm. She looks out into the distance and begins to enlighten me with her trek through the amusement park. She describes the feeling of endless possibilities, the only thing that limited her was the height restriction. The day was covered in a soft mist, the rides had a vibrant hue, and she remembers how she smiled so hard that day it hurt. There was a sparrow in the tree above her at one point and swears it was singing to her. Every detail is recounted from the dozens of rides she went on to the meals she ate, but then I venture to ask what she ate this morning. How much of a mistake I’ve made. She loses the light in her eyes.
“I don’t remember,” she says as her eyebrows furrow and eyes start to glimmer. “For the life of me I can’t remember.”