She left me in front of my shattered glass door, weeping. I waved goodbye to her, and she didn't look back.

My sister Elisa was known as the emotional type within my family circle, so it was no surprise she didn't give me a final glance. The suitcases once cluttering the apartment hallways were gone. Downy scented "Albany" sweatshirts were neatly pressed and folded in boxes, possibly fitting me in a few years. Her high school diploma was hung above near her prom photos, still freshly developed. Our bunk bed was dismantled and her collections of Johnny Depp's cut-out photographs were in the garbage can. "Now you can have your own room," my mom would state proudly, but I grumbled. I was alone in my generously proportioned room without my much wiser sibling to carry me on piggy back rides. Why did Albany State College take my sister Elisa away? Didn't they have enough snooty Caucasians attending their school so far up? Am I doomed to be alone forever because Elisa decided to become a doctor, nurse, or whatever she was in the mood for that week?

My sister and I were never fond of jewelry growing up. Perhaps it was because we were both tomboys. We didn't consider ourselves jewelry devotees. As Grace Kelly once said, "I don't like the feeling of cold things on my skin." My sister Elisa hated the stuff, even though our father gave her nothing else on birthdays and holidays. We both agree jewelry is merely unwanted an ornamental gift that our family seems to shower us with. In our devotion towards each other, we concealed our hidden disgust towards the jewelry. I taught her how to wash Barbie's hair; she showed me how to snap my fingers.

The Two Loves

Elisa was everything I yearned to be, but never could accomplish. She dated the smartest boys, knew how to dance, and blow dry her shoulder length hair straight. She was slender at only 5 feet and 110 pounds. Despite her frail figure, we always wrestle each other like boys. At times, we went to the movies and argued about our selection. She was big on Johnny Depp anything, Disney easily wooed me. After our film disputes, she never forgot to say, "I love you, chipmunk." She was the only one I allowed to tease me over my puffy cheeks.

I have nothing left of her, not even glossy prom photos that my mother once decorated our living room walls with. They're now covered with gleaming, smiling faces of newborn nieces and nephews. Everything that belonged to her was sent away with her to Albany, except me. Sure, the privacy of watching "Aladdin" over "Who's Eating Gilbert Grape" was delightful. Nevertheless, I wanted Elisa to squeeze my apple cheeks and scream "chipmunk!" at our dinner table again.

I can still feel the grasp of her skeletal fingers grasping my neck in a headlock. Before she left for college, she covered my widened eyes with her sweaty palms and placed a delicate gold chain around my neck. At the center was two small golden hearts glittering erratically.

"See the bigger heart chipmunk? That's me. The smaller one, duh, is you. We'll always be together," she quietly said and gently lay a small kiss on my forehead. Her pina-colada lip gloss left an imprint of her mouth, but I didn't wipe it off. I was hoping it would stay fresh, so I could feel her embrace while she was off to college.

The imprint lasted barely five minutes, but her chain has stayed with me. Yes, it's still inside its ivory wooden box, never worn again. I fear that if I lost the chain, I would forever lose my link with her. I may now wear jewelry more frequently, but her gift to me still lies in its compartment. I let no one touch it or even glance at it. The double heart chain stays in my Pandora's Box, with a "Beware of My Wrath" post-it attached to it. She would have laughed over that.

Elisa is gone and I can no longer blame college. She is now married with children of her own to squeeze and kiss. So what if I am a lonesome crab hidden within my room, protecting the chain? I am growing, enjoying my youth, unaccompanied in my room. Although she no longer rips my cheeks apart, the skinny loudmouth and I exist forever interlocked in a chain of memories.

Stephanie Nolasco attends Eugene Lang College in New York with a concentration on non-fiction and journalism. She has been published over 100 times.