I turned 50 last week. For many, this event would mark an important milestone. For me it passed by virtually unnoticed. The suitcase I carried to my sister’s funeral still sits in a corner of my bedroom. I have thought about putting it away a hundred times. But putting it away would mean unpacking, and what would be the point?
After the service, my brother-in-law encouraged me to pick out some of her clothes to take with me. I knew it was silly. She and I could not have been built any differently. My sister was a wisp, and me? Well, let’s just say I have always been “solid”. I don’t mind my size (anymore), but the reality is that everything in the suitcase is too small to fit.
Ironically, all of the shoes are too big.
The point of unpacking would be to actually wear the clothes in the suitcase. Instead I am using it to hold the items that I hope will fit my daughter. One item I had planned to keep is my sister’s black down vest. I wore it for about a week, but I could not zip it up if I had on more than a lightweight blouse. The Polar Vortex of 2014 made such clothing untenable, so the vest is now on top of the suitcase where my cat, Ian, has taken to sleeping. Looks to me like he found just the right combination of soft and warm.
Grief makes a strange companion for me. Sanguines are not usually given to bouts of depression or morose thoughts. I am not sure what to make of the gentle waves of sadness that roll over me when I least expect it. Other times the pain comes as a swift punch in the gut, knocking the wind right out of me. In those moments it feels like she just died all over again.
Supposedly grief comes in stages but I cannot remember what they are. I only know that last week my 50th birthday came and went without a card or call from my Big Sis. In fact, I could not remember the last time she had been able to send a card or call me on my birthday. This year I had to face the hardest truth: I would never receive a birthday card or call from her again.
Probably the best birthday ever was the year that we gave one other the same card!! My sister and I were both in the habit of purchasing birthday cards and gifts way early. Her birthday was in January and mine is in March. That year I had found her card in probably June. It was such an incredibly funny and appropriate card that I could not resist the urge to tell her how perfect her next birthday card would be. She did not hesitate to inform me that she too had found the perfect card for my birthday. One of us joked about how funny it would be if we had bought each other the same card! She kept the secret for 2 whole months but we laughed about it for years to come. You’ve heard the saying, “Great minds think alike”? Well, that was a case of kindred hearts.
What do you do when a piece of your heart gets ripped out? I find it difficult at times to gather my thoughts together enough to write about anything, and I often find myself thinking about my own death. I think about where she is now, too, and what she might be doing. I think about that a lot. My sister was a brilliant artist. Everything in her life was a work of art. From a prepared meal to a painting to her garden, she sought beauty in everything she put her hand to. I remember once hearing her talk about the importance of color to an artist. Her wonder at color was fascinating like a mystery was being revealed to me that despite her words, remained beyond my grasp. I like to imagine that now she is experiencing color like never before.
During one of my last visits with her she no longer spoke very much. Suddenly, in the middle of a conversation I was having with her husband, she mumbled something. At first we could not understand what she was trying to say. Frustrated, she left the room. We all looked at one another, shrugging. When she returned, there was a small picture frame in her hands. She pointed to it over and over and said, “This.” I did not have a clue what she meant. She became agitated, so stood and followed her as she wandered through the house saying, “This, this.”
We finally ended up in what would have been her studio. On the dresser were 6 Botanicals (dried flower arrangements) in frames, obviously unfinished. She relaxed when she found what she was looking for. Satisfied, she pointed to the pictures on the dresser and breathed, “this” one last time. What I saw broke my heart. None of the pieces before me looked anything like her work. They were nothing more than thin shadows of the depth of her talent. But even with a mind being slowly eaten away by dementia, more artistic ability dwelled in her pinky finger than I would ever possess in my whole body. Even then, my sister was beyond me.
I envy my cat. I would like to be able to curl up and fit on the back of a down vest sitting on the top of my small red suitcase. I am certain it would be just the right combination of soft and warm.