You would be 27 today. The last birthday we celebrated, baby sister, was your 21st. We started at your place in Capitol Hill and we hit the Taste of Colorado, Sancho’s Broken Arrow, then went downtown for some bar hopping. I remember going to Sing Sing’s. I was only 25, so it wasn’t overdone and boring yet. The memory is fuzzy. I see fractured bits and pieces – a clip of you laughing at the altered lyrics of the Dueling Pianos. You laughed a lot that night-you were so happy.
We ended up at the Colorado Cafe for breakfast and some ancient guy made a perverted comment to you and I wanted to rip him to pieces. There was a cab, food. Walking. Lots and lots of walking. Didn’t you vomit in someone’s bushes? Didn’t we walk from the Colorado Cafe all the way to your place, drunk? Why did we do that?
It’s been over five and a half years since I initially lost you and I continually lose bits and pieces of you. The finite detail of our memories together disappear. The color fades. It becomes more and more difficult to remember the sound of your voice, your laugh, your mannerisms, your perfume. I try bottling them up to keep them safe, furiously recording everything. Eventually I read them and remember that this happened and that happened. I remember the facts. But, your essence evaporates from me and I can’t stop it. One day you’ll be gone – all that will remain is a series of stills, a muted shadow of who you were, a void in my life and a number in my cell phone I still can’t bring myself to delete. My worst fear is coming true and I have realized that it is okay. It’s a part of moving on.
No matter how much I forget, how faded and silent my memories become – I will love you forever.
I miss the fuck out of you.
I forgive you.
Three Sisters: Laura is in the middle. 10/27/02
And yes, it still hurts.
So much that it’s hard to breathe sometimes.
But, I’ve adapted.
Learned to live with an amputated soul.
Sometimes when I see sisters having fun together and sharing inside jokes,
I feel as if someone has punched me in the gut.
We will not be old ladies with purple hair, bad perms and poodles,
cursing out the nursing home attendants.
Only recently the urge to call you has stopped.
And it made me sad.
I miss you.
3 Comments
August 31, 2008 at 5:36 am
This touched me deeply. Thank you for sharing.
January 31, 2009 at 9:07 am
Wow. That is heartbreaking to read. I just used the same analogy in a blog about my sister who passed away: my soul is amputated.
June 13, 2009 at 7:32 am
this is beautiful and sad and true all at the same time. I recently lost my best friend named Laura and randomly came across this post while typing in a quote in google. This is very helpful. thank you.