Memories: The Great Escape

The following is an account of the escape of my little sister's pet guinea pig.  I wrote it as if it were a letter.  I have no idea how old either of us was at the time.  I was originally going to try and turn this into a poem, but I couldn't get it to work; damn thing just wouldn't cooperate.  I didn't want the story to go to waste, so here we are.  Side-note: this story makes me think of a phone call I got from my sister year's later, informing me that my mother had passed away.  

Olivia,

Do you remember the pet guinea pig you had when we were kids that chewed a hole through the cardboard box we kept her in, just behind a pile of her green pellets of food?  I don’t remember the sound she made when the dog bit her, or if the dog actually bit her.  I don’t remember there being blood.  But I do remember holding her in my arms as she shivered in a dish towel, and how even the coarse hair felt cold.  I remember crying uncontrollably, having to be the one to tell you she was dead.  I remember you, stone silent as the turning of a page, still pondering the great escape.  I guess that’s how it goes for some people; time just seems to wash all of the messy details away, leaving behind the polished wound.  And tonight I’m sitting wishing I were you, chewing the cap of a pen pressed hard against a piece of clean, white paper, digging at the page, trying to remember her name.