It’s ten years ago. We’re not even twenty yet, but six months ago my sister was dying of pulmonary embolism. There have been tears and begging and whispered words to any deity that will listen, and most of all a bone-chilling fear that’s planted itself deep in my soul. But we’re here now, just the two of us under the Mediterranean sun. Two weeks in Cyprus to work on our tan and to celebrate life. Two weeks to get away from the horrors of what happened. Two weeks to melt away the winter that’s taken root within us.
And as the taxi driver laughs at our mispronunciation of the name of our hotel, I can feel the healing begin. “Chrielka!” he says loudly, as if dumb could be fixed by a louder volume, and we both try again, to his great dismay. He shakes his head and mutters something while weaving in and out of traffic and flipping other drivers off. Malin’s hair tickles my arm, and the trees are full of exotic flowers.
It’s the start of two amazing weeks of sunshine and the sea, of getting lost and finding our way back again, of fighting battles with cockroaches and emerging victorious, if a little worse for wear. It’s two weeks of incredible memories, but it’s that first taxi drive that I remember with the most fondness, because that’s what saved my life. It was those first few moments of laughter that expanded my chest and made room for the ice to melt.
This post was written for Nicky and Mike's 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing III. To see the other posts, please visit We Work For Cheese.
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