I have been back and forth to this house she called home a handful of times since my sister’s death. I had never been to this house while she was alive—she and her partner moved in while I was working abroad, and when I came home, we all went to our parents’ house for holidays.
I have only known this house as I walked among the things that constituted the life she built. I only projected my thoughts onto the physical realities I saw in throughout the rooms. I could only take in the circumstantial remnants of what happened that morning. I was unable to fully imagine her when she truly occupied this space.
I have sat where she sat, eaten where she ate, handled objects she held, and lived in what is left in her wake. This trip I got to unbox her lovingly purchased Halloween decorations and help deck out the house for her favorite holiday. This house has allowed me to commune with my sister through her physical world, when I no longer can have her presence.
This time I came back to a house that, while still filled with reminders of her, has far less of her things than it did last time. It’s like her presence through her possessions is waning. I know her partner will get rid of more of her things in the coming months… the man was content to have way too many of her favorite gnome decorations in the house when he saw the happiness it brought her. Without her, they’re just painful clutter.
And here I sit, hours before I fly away from this town again, and without a next trip on the horizon. I do not know if I will ever be back here. That is a painful sentence to write, because it was not that long ago I was figuring out the optimal way to get here from my next work assignment, because I was anticipating a 2024 wedding I would absolutely need to travel for.
When I leave this town, I don’t want it to be hard, but I can’t imagine it will be easy. It feels like another reminder that at some point, whether know it or not, we do the last of anything—someday will be the last day we hug someone or speak to someone or see some place. I never appreciated that fully until I lost my sister. It’s hard to stop thinking about it now.
Unmoored Sister 