My sister is in and of and around me always. 

My sister, who had more soul and love and passion than anyone else I know. 

My sister, who visits me in quiet moments, floating into the space behind my closed eyes. 

I see her still, the sister I lost two years ago. The sister who came to Australia with long, dark, curly hair and the look of a mischievous Jesus. The sister who fought her cancer so hard, so bravely, even as her hair fell and her skin grew pallid.

In the 10 days before she died, my big, noisy sister grew malleable and silent. 

We turned her each day, my brother and I. My sister’s hollowed out shoulders made me weep because they had once been so full of muscle and power. 

I had promised myself I would not get maudlin in those last days of my sister’s life. She would not have wanted that. Instead, I put on my best bossy big sister voice and urged her to drink her bloody Gaviscon and to keep bloody coughing up the phlegm that threatened to suffocate her.

And when her chest became wet and murky I slept next to her, watching that chest go up and down, up and down. And even after the medication cleared up her breathing, I slept nearby. I just needed to be close. 

I prayed that she would stop eating because then she would stop shitting and we could stop torturing her poor, tired body as we slid the toileting sling beneath her.  When we lowered her down onto the commode, my sister screamed and swore and bit any hand that came too close. Her agony made me sad but the biting made me laugh. It was so her. 

And then the last day, when I offered my sister food and she said yes, but only to please me. One minuscule square of buttered toast, two sips of tea, some of which found her soft neck, and that was it for food. That worried me more than anything else. My sister had once been such a glutton. 

Her last precious hours stretched on forever, as the day grew warm and found its momentum. The sound of the fan. The cool of the concrete floor. The flowers on the curtains. Dogs asleep. Wildflowers in a glass. Mortein in a red can. The gentle hum of the bed inflator to stop blood clots forming in her swollen legs. The leaves rustling in the breeze. And there I sat, keeping watch over my sister as she slept her way towards forever. 

I didn’t know what to do. I was like a balloon with no air left in it. I was anxious and fearful of what lay ahead. I just wanted to sit there, near my sister, allowing her body to do whatever it must. Because despite it all, despite being prepared, I found I was not yet ready for a world without her in it. 

In my sister’s final quiet hour, there was no longer any need to move or feed or disturb her. I put her favourite song on the record player and wept silently at her bedside. I played guitar, sang her soft versions of other songs she loved, and – as if the music was a rope and she, momentarily, could climb up it, she joined in, eyes closed but in there still. 

And then, when everything was silent and I thought there would be no more, my sister looked up at me with those limpid eyes, took my hand and smiled a little, just a little, then closed her eyes forever. I saw it. I saw the light flicker and fade.

I taste her still. The scent of patchouli. The twang of body shop White Musk perfume. The immense thereness of her. My sister. 

 -Jane Cornes

Jane has edited numerous non-fiction titles and contributed feature articles to a wide variety of magazines and newspapers. In 2020, Jane wrote, photographed and designed her first book of recipes and stories, Lazy Fare. In 2021, the book won a special category award at the Gourmand International book awards. In 2020, Jane was named winner of the prestigious AAWP best short story competition.