We didn’t have a “proper” service for my sister. She didn’t particularly like large to-dos, and none of us were in a position to put on anything formal. Instead, it was just the family (her partner, his immediate family, our parents, and me) and a small subset of her closest friends, “her people.”
I had told our parents ahead of time that I would not be looking at her. Years ago, at a funeral for one of our grandparents, she and I had talked about how creepy we personally found the whole business of viewings at funerals. I clung to that conversation as confirmation that she would have completely understood my decision. I allowed myself to not view her, dressed in the clothes her partner and I had picked out together after standing in her closet the day before, crying and holding each other.
I couldn’t look, because to look would have replaced the last time I had seen her—months before when I was home for Christmas and had hugged her goodbye—with this moment, and I couldn’t bear to do that.
I also understood that her partner needed to see her, because his last memory was of her body on the floor where he had attempted CPR. Where paramedics had also failed to bring her back. Where she had been declared dead. Where blood of as-of-yet still unexplained origin stained the carpet around her. He needed to see a more peaceful, final vision of the woman he was supposed to spend his life with.
I likewise knew why my parents wanted to see her. If they hadn’t, there would have been a part of them that doubted this was real at all. They needed to behold her final sleep so they could wrap their minds about this out-of-sequence event in life. They needed to say goodbye to their baby, who should have outlived them by decades.
The private viewing room was small, and I had to stand in a corner near the door not to look at her when the four of us—parents, her partner, and I—entered. I ended up standing with my back partially toward her to avoid looking inadvertantly.
Hearing their involuntary reactions when they first saw her was hard. Nothing prepares you for the sound of hearing your parents realize their worst fear came true. My dad’s quiet, simple, “I’m going to miss you so much” as he barely contained his sobs will be etched into my memory forever. It’s also heartbreaking hearing your sister’s partner apologize to her lifeless form despite there being absolutely nothing he could have changed. None of us knew what to do, and none of us wanted to leave. Because after we said goodbye, she would be cremated. Because this special collection of atoms that made up the woman we loved would never again exist, not like this.
As I went to cross the threshold of the door and leave, I turned and looked not at her but at the casket where she was. I wiggled my hands in the stupid way we had taken to waving goodbye for years and said my last farewell, using the nickname we used for each other. And my heart broke again as for the first time, I got no echo in response.
Unmoored Sister 