My sister Autumn died when she was eighteen. She wasn’t totally popular amongst the masses, she didn’t really have any skills or successes – unless you counted addiction and sex, then she was successfully addicted and sexually active, sure. She hadn’t left much of an imprint behind otherwise, aside from the fact that she left me an uncle. At fourteen, I became an uncle to Remington “Remmy” Owen and Ronnie Owen, a twin boy and girl.
When my sister announced her pregnancy, my mother was disgusted and my father was horrified. After the pregnancy was announced, I would sit in my bedroom for hours and hear the whispers on the other side of my bedroom door, wondering if Autumn could hear it, too. Our mother and father bickering back and forth like a flame lit between one another; harsh, rasp whispers about what they were going to do to help our sister and her children once born.
Autumn never brought the boy around. In fact, to this day, I couldn’t tell you whom she birthed the children to because by the time we showed up at the hospital, he was lost and gone forever. My sister was in tears holding her children, sobbing how she didn’t want to do it alone.