text: I was there when my parents told her. I watched them sit my sister down in the lounge room; I was peering around the wall. I already knew. There must have been some expression on their faces as they sat in a moment’s silence. Because she knew. She was only 10, but she knew. The silence turned into a minute, a time during which I saw many expressions: confusion, worry, disbelief, sorrow, and pain. All in silence. Because she knew. “Pogo,” Dad finally said, and, before he spoke another word, I watched her eyes widen and glisten with tears waiting to waterfall down those smooth cheeks. “He’s been in an accident.” That was all that needed to be said, the key to open the floodgates behind the shiny, blue eyes. Because she knew. *She’d gotten Pogo as a puppy, only three years beforehand. A birthday gift, a basket and a bow tie and a ribbon. Sure, it was clichéd, but she didn’t care. Neither did Pogo, the bouncing bundle of fluff, who on seeing his new companion had leapt clean out of the wicker and showered her with licks. I had been there too; I had seen the eyes widen with happiness, not sorrow; I had seen the cheeks grow red with excitement, not pain; I had seen bright smiles, not quivering lips. He was hers and she was his. He knew that. She knew that.* Mum got up and sat next to her, arm gently around her shoulder, drawing her in tight. Dad did the talking; Mum was comfort. “Is he going to be alright?” The words were slow spoken and shaking, because in only that short time, her mind had put everything together. They would have been happier if Pogo was going to be alright; they would not have made such a big deal about it all. She’d be with Pogo right now if all would be fine, stroking his fur, and whispering comfort into those floppy ears. They would have been at the vet. But they weren’t. She wasn’t. She knew. “I’m sorry, darling,” said Dad, as Mum squeezed just that little bit tighter. “What happened?” She didn’t really want to know. “There was a car.” She stood up quickly, letting out a gasp and a squeak of shock. I reeled back from the corner as she approached, running to her room. She passed me, and in the second’s eye contact I felt her burn. I had been listening in, watching. She knew. And her heart, I feel, broke that little bit more. I wasn’t there for her. But I’m not good at comfort, at caring, knowing what to do or say, or even whether to do or say anything at all. Mum does that. Mum and Dad. I looked around the corner again. Dad had joined Mum on the lounge. He had her in his arms. “She’ll be alright.” **I remember it all, running through my mind as I stand in front of her door. Do I knock? Do I open it? Do I walk away? I am lost in the moment, sent back, reliving the same feelings, the feelings that sunk into my heart as she walked past. The torture of the past. I hadn’t known what to do then. How could I know now? And so I stand in front of that door, silent and still, wanting to enter and wanting to run. She didn’t know. I had to tell her.** I followed her to her room. I was in the hallway when I heard the door slam shut, followed by the creaking metal of the old bed springs and the muffled scream into the pillow. Again. Again. I stood in front of the door. Over time the screams stopped, replaced by perhaps a more heart wrenching sound: sobbing. I reached forward with my hand, placing it onto the cold metal handle. It squeaked as I pushed down. “Go away!” I turn and leave. She didn’t need me. **She needs me now. She needs me and she doesn’t know it, doesn’t know why. I have to tell her. So many years have come and gone, but right now the memory is as clear as if it happened yesterday. The house has changed and the years have changed us, but it’s still the same. It’s still me standing at her door, wanting to run. But I have to stay.** **The handle doesn’t squeak; she doesn’t notice me until the door is wide open. She’s lying on her bed, laptop flipped up, studying ever so hard, writing her thesis. She looks at me.** **The demon returns, that dreadful silence. I stand there. She opens her mouth to speak but then she stops and her lips close softly. She has seen that look before, the look I do not know I am wearing. I guess it must always be the same look, no matter who gives it. The laptop closes and she sits up, turning on the side of the bed. Our eyes haven’t broken.** **Then it’s my turn to relive the past, as her still-smooth face goes through the very same list from all those years ago: confusion, worry, disbelief, sorrow, and pain. All in silence. Because she knows. Somehow she knows.** **I open my mouth to speak. I wish I did not have to. I wish that Dad and Mum were here to do it, here to say what has to be said. I do not want to be the one to open those floodgates, release the shimmering stream from those deeper, blue eyes. But I have to be.** **Dad’s not here anymore, and never again will Mum hold her close.** **So I do.