Making bluebirds

Harriet missed her brother more than she could say. His death was sudden and tragic and left a gaping wound inside her: a black hole that sucked her energy, her will to live. She was bleeding life. All she wanted was to have just five more minutes with him, to tell him how much she loved him. That would be sufficient, but no-one helped her. Nobody could give her that time back.
As she sat at her desk in her bedroom, her angle poise lamp shining down on a blank sheet of paper, she reached for a pen and began to scribble. Her mind was completely blank but her heart couldn't have had more to say. It was in control and within half an hour she had written frantically across ten sheets of paper. Every thought, fear, worry, hope and dream was on those pages.
'If only he could read them,' she thought as a gentle rap to the door snapped her from her trance.
"Are you okay, sweetheart?" said her mother through the door.
"Fine," was the Harriet's laconic reply.
"What are you doing?"
Harriet stared at the pages and at the portrait of Ben she had sketched propped up against a pile of books. She smiled at him and instantly felt a strange warmth envelop her, like arms gently wrapping themselves around her body. Without thought or plan she grabbed page after page and began to fold.
"Making bluebirds," she replied.
When she finished, she placed her folded paper birds into an empty shoe box and carried them to her bedroom window. The air outside was brisk and fluttered her curtains as it whistled through her window. One by one Harriet plucked the birds from the box and released them.
“Fly. Fly,” she said as the breeze whipped them up.
Higher and higher they soared into the night carrying their message off to where she hoped Ben would read them.