One Year

Once again I wonder, Is my imagination playing tricks on me? When someone dies, the brain still plays memories and fortunately, unfortunately, so do our phones. Images of my sister, videos of her, come up on anniversary dates. Today, one year ago today, she became what is commonly called, the dearly departed. My ignoramus of a phone does not have images or videos from a year ago today, and for this reprieve, I am grateful. 

Stupid, amazing, stupid memory, cursed when we recall, blessed when we recall; a loss when we cannot have once again what is somehow awkwardly missing. I want to remember everything but do not want to draw too near, because then the sense of misplacement of my sister hits like a wet fish across the face. Remember? She is no more. How is she no more? Wherefore art thou, dear sister? 

I almost went shopping these past couple of days. I almost went to a store she and I frequented when we would go off to find hanging on racks treasures. I wanted to go to stores where the staff knew her voice, her laugh, recognized her face, knew her by name, and tell them, She died. Ask them, Did you know she died? Have you noticed her missing, that she hasn't been around? Have you missed her? Do you wonder where she went? I wanted them to know, so they could be sad and shocked in front of me. I selfishly wanted to be sad and shocked in front of them. 

Sad and shocked are not states of preferred being. Sad and shocked are avoidable, when we pretend they are not there, and we go about the business of living. We must go about the business of living, isn't that right, dear reader? No matter how sad, shocked, sorrowful, sullen, sickly the soul, we must carry on as though nothing really hurts that badly, or as though life is life, death is death, and we must be brave and acknowledge they are inseparable Siamese twins, co-existing without a sharp enough scalpel to part them. The person is dead; Get on with it, the mind says ... but the heart, the heart aches and longs and wishes and wants, and it is the heart that feels broken and bleeding, cut to the quick. How vulgar it is to speak death, to see lifelessness: it is an affront to the senses and a cruel trick. 

I have images I could share, and I am confident you have some too, of people you miss. In my family, a candle is lit on death anniversaries, and the flame burns throughout the day. Each time I enter the kitchen this July 8th, I will see a reminder that my sister really existed, really lived and breathed, laughed until she almost peed ... that she was a part of my like, in countless ways; there was only one of her ever made, and then God broke the mould. Ha ha ... in Antonella's case, no one would disagree with this assessment - she was truly unique. Just typing her name brings on a torrent of tears, and rightly so. 

I am grateful for the written word, for a keyboard that is responsive to my finger taps. I hadn't cried for quite some time, I realize, because I push away the harsh reality of her death, and subsequent almost impossible to believe, removal from our lives. How did this happen ... here today, gone tomorrow ... here for just shy of sixty years, gone for an entire year. What?

I was smart with myself this time. This time I took time. This time I realized that grief requires space to be given room to be aired. People die and the left behind wonder and long, and the brain plays a role in suggesting they never existed because, Life has gone on, see, without them. You, the brain says, are still here, even though they are not. You are fine, why borrow sorrow trouble?

Because Brain ... I love her and wish I had more time with her and so I will, I will weep and miss and want, even though I cannot have. 

I will. 

She is and was and always will be, worth it.