It has come and gone.
The first of the rest of the days of her birth she won’t be alive to celebrate. The first reminder of 2024 that the cadence of my life as I knew it has been disturbed. I still acutely feel that she is missing, and I want the world to know this is not okay. But there’s only so many times you can force others to stare into the depths of your grief before you worry you’ll push them away.
I cry privately, often. I’ve made space for it now in my weekly agenda, and I’ve learned to let it happen when it creeps up on me by surprise. I almost never cry publicly, now. I’m torn, because in some ways this means I’ve reasserted my own control over my displayed affect, but it also means I’ve accepted that there needs to be a difference between the public and private way I walk through the world.
My sister would have been 29 this year. I would have convinced her to fly out and visit me as her present. I would have shown her things I’d told her stories about. I would have lavished her with sweets.
Instead I wrote a post on her memorialized Facebook page and lamented the painfully small number of people that seemed to even notice the day come and go. I wanted the world to pause, for a moment, and know what it was missing, but of course it did not.
I’m spending this month of her birth trying my best to honor her life by not letting the memory of her bring pain. She was a joyful presence to those that knew her, and she would be mortified to know thinking of her brought anyone pain.
So, my dearest sister, I promise this month I will:
- Revel in the music of your favorite band when I go to their concert in a few weeks.
- Find news ways to deepen my love for myself and believe in my worth.
- Indulge sometimes in the things that bring joy, including your favorite desserts.
- Do my best to be a bright spot in the lives of those around me.
- Live my life as fully as I can, and not take a moment of it for granted.
Happy 29th, little sister.
Unmoored Sister 