I’ve lived almost two years now unable to shoot my sister a message and get a response. I thought that by now I would stop having moments where I feel the urge to text her—moments when I have forgotten that I live in a world without my sister. But it still happens. Not as frequently, and when it does, the re-realization doesn’t hit quite as hard as it used to. But the sting is still there.
I just finished an incredible two week trip. I did brave, bold things I’ve never done before. I leaned in and lived life fully. And in the most central part of my being I wished to be able to share some of it with my sister. I wanted to update her on the number of kilometers traveled. I wished I could send her egregious typos I found on public signage. I longed to buy her silly tourist trinkets that reminded me of her or inside jokes. But I can’t. That part of my life is over, and I never even knew the end was coming until it did.
In the almost two years, I’ve finally passed the point where I impulsively buy all the things I would have bought her, because I don’t need the random stuff in my life. I’ve also largely ceased sending messages to her now-defunct accounts and lamenting at the ever-growing length of the one-sided conversation. But there’s this hole nestled in every new experience, and it’s the exact shape of sharing the story with her.
Unmoored Sister 