From my chair beside the cottage fire, I imagine the coffin being lowered into the freshly dug earth, carefully cut pieces of sod stacked to the side, anticipating their return to cover my sister’s remains. A patchwork of earth and grass that would mend itself back together again. I envy that. I will be lonely for Jo the rest of my life.
I always knew where to find her. My sister was as predictable as clockwork and while I couldn’t imagine her life being mine, I often needed and took comfort in the familiarity of each other, the shared understanding of where we came from, though how that shaped us manifested in different ways. We drew from a deep well of humor. And while that often offered a detour from digging into uncomfortable places and the conversations I longed for, it also honored the best family trait handed down to us.
Random bits and pieces of times spent together have kept me company this week. I remember how my sister loved the musical Camelot. She had the album and I truly thought she would wear the vinyl out; part of me hoped so, except I loved hearing her sing and look so happy. I teased her about having a crush on Robert Goulet. George Harrison did nothing for her. We liked different music, our styles were different, we often saw the world from different points of view.
She was my sister. I loved her. She loved me. The love between us was always there. It was enough.
This week the tears keep coming, blurring my vision and choking my heart. I vacillate between holding them back and letting them flow. Someone who has been a part of my life forever is gone. I’m feeling numb against the finality of her death. To know I’ll never laugh with her again.
To not know, for the first time in my life, where to find her.