Sometimes I imagine unzipping her. I imagine the folder expanding like a flower, spilling out everything I have tried so hard to contain: her terrible singing in the car, the mole behind her left ear, the way she would text me a single period when she was mad because she knew it would drive me crazy. I imagine all of that rushing back into the world, filling my room, filling my lungs. And then I imagine the moment it ends—the video stops, the audio loops, the file sits open but still. And I realize that unzipping her would not bring her back. It would only remind me that she is, and always will be, a collection of moments I no longer know how to add to.
The file is 2.7 gigabytes. I know this because I right-click it often, as if the metadata might change. Last modified: never. Date created: the day the hospital told us she would not wake up. I did not create the file out of cruelty. I created it because I could not bear to let her exist unguarded on my desktop, her JPEG smile exposed to every accidental click. So I compressed her. I turned her laugh into code. I turned her habit of stealing my sweaters into a string of 1s and 0s. I told myself that as long as the file remained unopened, she remained perfectly preserved—sleeping, not gone. My Sleeping Sister.zip
But files degrade, don’t they? Not in the way flesh does, but in the way memory does. I have not opened in eighteen months. I am terrified of what I will find. Will her voice still sound like her voice? Or will the compression have smoothed away the sharp edges of her temper, the way she said “idiot” like it was a term of endearment? Will the video of her dancing in the kitchen at 2 a.m. still feel like a secret, or will it feel like a recording? There is a difference between a person and a file. A file you can close. A person you cannot. Sometimes I imagine unzipping her