Today marks the 7th anniversary of the worst day of my life — the day you made me an only child. I have not forgiven you.
I feel like I’ve coped adequately, but some days are a lot harder than others… not that I’ve ever minded a tearful drive home from work, but still.
It’s odd; I would have thought I’d be more sad on your deathday each year than your birthday, but that got me thinking. Your deathday reminds me only of death, but your birthday reminds me of the life you lived and surrendered. Your birthday feels much more morose because it leaves an ache in me, a longing to celebrate your existence with you, not simply of your memory.
Warnings on plastic bags (like this one, which came with my new iPad keyboardfolio in the mail the other day) always send an eerie, empty feeling of nausea down my throat and through my spine. The graphics on this one make it particularly triggering.
The past few weeks have been hard, knowing that today was coming, but when today came, it arrived rather nonchalantly. Work kept me busy and distracted for most of the day, which I appreciated, but toward the end of the day on my courthouse run, my thoughts started to wander. Perhaps the courthouse elevator, which smelled oddly reminiscent of Grandma’s basement, jogged my mind back to childhood summers.
It took me a few years to realize just how much I missed feeling like an older sister. There are a small handful of young women who look up to me as a role model, and they mean the world to me. Recently, I’ve helped one learn to masturbate, helped one become more comfortable with her sexual orientation, and helped two others with dating and relationship problems. I feel a bit like a surrogate older sister to these women, and I love being able to lend them my guidance. They add purpose to my life.
By the way, Dad had an emotional breakdown while I was at work the other day. We had a contractor come out to the house to fix the roof, and the man endangered the life of the nine-year-old boy he brought along. Among the day’s lowpoints were Dad choking back tears and losing his temper more than once at the thought of this small boy fatally falling off of our roof, not to mention the contractor peeing by one of our cars. I’ll tell you the full story the next time I see you.
We miss you, buddy. Please come home.
All my love,