A Letter from Rashad
By: Rashad H. Haughton
Eight a.m., and I awake from one of the dreams again, the dreams where I am talking with my sister, Aaliyah. I try to remember her words and the subject of our conversation, but they melt away, leaving me with a sense of longing and confusion. Did my dream mean anything at all?I lie in her bed, in her apartment across fromm Central Park. The first thing I see when I open my eyes is the deep blue of her ceiling, which is decorated with shiny gold stars. The midnight sky over her bed--she really loved it. In that moment I feel even closer to Aaliyah that I had in my dream, because I know that she used to do the very same thing I was doing: enjoying the simplest things in her life. I get out of bed and walk around her apartment. I turn on the stereo and listen to an unreleased track we both loved. Her voice makes my heart feel warm, and I smile as I stare at the gold and platinum plaques on her walls. She is all around me, she is there with me--but she is not.There is no science to dealing with a loss so devastating. I feel better when I'm around her things, hearing her music, watching her movies and videos. For my parents, though, it is difficult to be reminded constantly thattheir daughter, who at 22 was just reaching her prinen, was so horribly taken from them without any warning. Grieving is different for Everyone, but the pain can never be avoided.Memoreis are my band-aids when the emotional wounds start to bleed. I watched my amazing baby sister grow into a star. When she was little, she would sing around the house, performing for the family after dinner, sometimes waking us up with a song in the morning principles instilled in us by our mother and father. Because she was so grounded, the more celebrity and success she achieved, the closer we were able to grow.I was Aaliyah's rock, her confidant, and--I quote form her MTV Video Music Awards acceptance speech--"her everything." Becuase I'm a writer, I was able to help her creatively, thinking through the wording of a press statemnet or an answer to an interview question; I wrote the video treatment for her song "4 Page Letter."Aaliyah was mature beyond her years and knew how important it was to do what you love, to make your wishes a reality. So now I follow in her footsteps: I'm 24, recently graduated form Hofstra University, and pursuing my dream of being a screen-writer and director. I know Aaliyah would have wanted me to reach for the stars.The pain can feel nearly impossible to cope with, and a void will always remain, but my family has been helped immensely by the immeasurable outpouring of love from my sister's fans and friends. Many of those fans are teens, for whom the sudden death of a role model was incredibly confusing. Their world was turned upside down, and getting over the shock seemed like an almost unclearable hurdle. Still, the fans have Aaliyah's music to give them solace when the going gets tough. The songs that touched them befoe, that were relevant to their lives then, are still available to them. And letting the tears flow is a necessary part of the healing process.I have described what has happened to my family as being "unreal," as if I had been thrust into a waking dream. As I walk around Aaliyah's apartment, I try to grasp rhe fact that the clothes in her closet will never worn again. I walk through the kitchen and notice her favorite LUcille Ball refrigerator magnet, and I refuse to believe that she'll never make breakfast for me again.But pretending is not what I should do. And I know that I am not alone. On September 11, the world was shaken, and thousands of families were blinded by disbelief just as I was the day my sister died. Many people in New York said the same thing: that watching the airplanes crash into the World Trade Center was like watching a movie--it felt so unreal. But it was not a movie, of course. It just takes time for our minds to register something so awful. The future that lies before us does not have to be bleak--if we only hold on to what we know is real. Freedom is real. Love is real.What will happen to us? Why can't I have my baby sister back? Why can't I laugh with her again? Why can't we talk on the ohone all night and share secrets? The mystery of it al overwhelms me. But a certain calm comes over me again as I return to her bedroom and look back up at her ceiling. I know that the answers to these questions do not matter, for although my sister's ceiling is only an illusion of the midnight sky, I can still touch it. And when I look out into the real midnight sky, I know she can touch it.And my dreams do mean something--if I want them to. And she is with me--if I allow her to be. I can smile again--if I let the memory of presence on this earth exist as a gift, and not a loss. It's not an answer, just a way
