We went to Red Robin a few after we said our goodbyes at the funeral home. It was the four of us — our parents, my sister’s partner, and me. It was the first time we had gone out anywhere to eat or do much of anything. We watched a Memorial Day jet flyover in her honor and then went to eat. Eleven days in the After.
We prioritized ordering her favorite dishes — a pre-meal Oreo Cookie Magic Milkshake, some Clucks & Fries, a Whiskey River BBQ Chicken Wrap. These had been staples since middle school. We sat around the table doing our best to hold it together and look like a normal family out to lunch, but I know we were all lost in memories.
Memories of past meals at this and other Red Robins. Meals attached to high school sports and family dinners and then later to dates and fun life events. We were doing okay, until behind us the staff began a rousing round of the restaurant’s birthday song, wishing someone a happy 29th birthday.
29.
An age my sister would never get to be. Her time ended 7 months too early for that. An innocuous number that brought the world crashing down around us. We shrunk into our booth and avoided eye contact until we each had managed to bury back within ourselves the renewed grief.
I don’t have a witty end to this story, nor do I have some insightful way to turn it into something meaningful. Sometimes it just sucks to sit in the middle of a restaurant trying to survive when someone else’s celebration reminds you of all that you’ve lost.
Unmoored Sister 