“Ruby Chavez.”
As the principal of my sister’s high school announced her name, applause flooded the auditorium. My parents, well in their 50s, slowly made their way across the stage: my mom in her nicest dress, my dad in his best dress shirt. They shook hands with the school administration on their way, picking up my sister’s high school diploma at the end of their journey.
When my sister passed away, everything changed.
Being 5 years younger than her, I was only 13 years old. Grief for my sister washed away all I had known of my short life: midnight quesadillas, drive-in movies, car rides home from school singing “Mamma Mia!” at the top of our lungs. The past few years have felt centuries long as I was crushed under the weight of the sister-shaped hole in my life.
Coming into senior year, I was overcome with anxiety to make the most of this era of monumental change. I tried to enjoy as much time as possible with family, friends, and my partner. My class took advantage of new privileges, as we indulged in off-campus lunches and off-periods. We drowned in college and scholarship applications. There was constant talk of post-grad trips and graduation parties. It seemed that everyone around me glowed with the light at the end of the tunnel.
This has been a year of milestones. With these milestones, I’ve been thinking more and more about the moments in my life that have led up to these life-changing experiences. My sister is present in every single one.
In the months before she passed, my sister experienced the same things I did this year. Every night, I watched her from the end of the hallway as she worked restlessly on our family computer—applying to colleges, building a portfolio, blindly trying to figure out financial aid and craving adulthood yet yearning for childhood all at once. A week before the incident, she received her acceptance letter to her top choice school.
My sister never got to celebrate her accomplishments. She didn’t see her graduation, prom, grad party, or cap and gown. Entering the second semester, I knew I wanted to celebrate all of my own accomplishments in her name. Her graduation cap tassel made an appearance in my yearbook photo—I wore the silver numbers that read “‘18” with great pride. My senior quote was dedicated to my sister, solidifying her presence in this chapter of my life.
For Ruby. My achievements are my love’s souvenir.
— Lorena Chavez
As my parents walked the stage in Ruby’s place, the applause was all that could be heard. Slowly, all the graduates in my sister’s class stood up. There was a wave of red caps as every single person, one by one, got to their feet. Though the stadium only became louder with applause, it somehow grew quieter. As my sister’s diploma was handed off to my parents, I felt the world go silent.
In that moment, I wasn’t alone in my grief, or admiration, or love for my sister. We all saw her and her journey. This was for Ruby, and Ruby only. I wanted to live in that moment forever.
My own graduation is less than 2 months away. For most of my life, I’ve envisioned that moment with my sister there. Now, I know she will be. When I walk that stage, the way she should have 6 years ago, I will be celebrating her as well.
