A counselor suggested I write you a letter. The thought had never even occurred to me. That should tell you everything you need to know about how I am doing. In a nutshell, I am in survival mode. My brain has quit working in its’ normal ways. Things that should be natural are not. And, I’m so tired. Like on a whole new level that I never knew existed. I look at the years stretching in front of me and I’m not sure what to do about them. I don’t want to waste them, but how do I not when you won’t be there? You won’t. We can’t go on our trip to New Orleans and ride a swamp boat. I can’t pick out your Christmas presents. I am, no longer, a big sister. This is the point where some well-meaning lady with tissue crammed in her bra would tell me, “Of course you are. You’ll always be her big sister. She’s still with you.” Honestly? I want to punch that lady. And the one that says God needed you and that you’re an angel now looking out for me. A ton of really terrible things have happened since that morning so if you are looking out for me you’re doing a shit job. Sorry not sorry. I still get that life is as much magic as tragic but I don’t know how to operate safely within it. For three years we talked on the phone constantly. We maneuvered our way through every crisis. We found a way to be joyful in the middle of your hell and then it was all taken away. Because of stupidity. Because of an accident. Because of nothing that was relevant to your fighting spirit. It didn’t even wink at how hard you fought. The times you squeezed in a walk between throwing up. How much the sheets on your bed hurt your skin. How jubilant you looked on the day you shaved your hair off. I feel like the way you went should have nodded its head at all of that. It owed you some respect and you got none. And I am so, so, so pissed about that. I’m pissed that our last conversation was so great. Was that a gift? Bra tissue lady would say yes. But it was also a knife in the side. It hinted at a different future. The one where you beat cancer because the horrible treatment worked. It was working. How do I square with that? How do I put my hand in life’s hand and continue forward in good faith? I think it might mean me harm. I don’t trust it anymore. It might as well be a clown grinning at me from the grates of a sewer. (That one was for you.) And so, I’m stuck. Stuck because I don’t want to waste the fact that I’m still breathing. I actually saw a red-headed woodpecker the other morning. The boys are still hilarious and naughty and growing. The holidays are coming. They will come. You still won’t be here. I’m just not sure how to handle this sissy. You know how we always talked about how things can either make us bitter or better? It was our mantra through dad, through mom, through everything. This time is different. I can’t find a toe hold for this making me better. I just want to throw a fit and change it. I don’t want it to be. To have happened. To be real. I hate this version of the story. I hate that your tennis shoes are in my plastic box where I keep seasonal shoes. They are too big for me. I can’t wear them. I refuse to throw them away. They were yours. The Eeyore I gave you the last day I saw you is on my nightstand and your ashes are on a shelf in my closet. Richard still has the mints we found in your purse. He hides them behind a picture in his office and thinks I don’t know. I know. All of it is yours. It holds a reality that was yours. I can’t and won’t accept that it’s gone. And even through all of that I am doing what we have always done. I’m dealing. I decorated for Halloween. I only cry when I am alone because I don’t want to be a bummer. I question whether I need to be doing better by now. I question why I am doing as well as I am. I replay you asking me for one more hug over and over and I stay angry. And then, I try to pep talk myself out of the rage. “Come on, take a breathe, focus on the good.” Oh my freaking hell, I am the bra tissue lady. She really needs to be punched. I don’t know sissy. I still love God. I still trust His character. But I don’t understand why you went through so much to be lost to something so stupid. I don’t know what to do with my hurt and frustration. I want everything to be different. Maybe that is the best sentence. I want. So so much. And so many things. I still send you text messages even though they come back green. I send you funny clips on Instagram because I want you to see them. I tell my phone to call you and then hang up. And, I cringe every time I say I need to call my sister and Richard doesn’t have to ask which one. I know we had our rough spots. I was a dink in high school. We were very different personality wise, but it turns out you were my familiar. My safe spot. A north star that made it all make sense. I spent decades protecting you from everything I thought might hurt you and it turns out I missed one. The most dangerous one and I lost you. And I’m really sorry. I wish I could go back and never leave you. I’d be there in that shiny neutral room and that horrible morning would never happen and I would yell at everyone. Full on it would be a Sally Fields moment. Full on. But then, I would be forced to realize that I don’t know where everyone would be then. That the good things that have happened wouldn’t have. And I know you would love the good things. There are bingo games and decorated refrigerators. There’s a cute house that the boys visit and Tinkerbell loves that. I have no choice but to accept that good things have happened in the last 6 months. Really good things. That kills me. I don’t want good things to come from you being gone but they have. If it were up to me, this year, the leaves wouldn’t change colors, nobody would carve a pumpkin and the world would run out of new recipes, but that won’t happen. Everyone is just living. And having new babies and buying groceries. And I have no choice but to witness it. To understand how wonderful warm little hands are and good friends and chilly mornings. The stupid bra tissue lady would tell me I need to enjoy all the good things for both of us. No kidding braniac. I know that. Honestly, I’m not sure I could help it even if I wanted to. Couldn’t help it because we are a matched set. Two Raggedy Ann dolls, two quilted housecoats, a prom night who needed someone to do the makeup, the opposite end of a couch when there was a Sisters marathon and the only other person who knows how good that veal parmesan was. I have to experience it all for both of us because we always have. It’s our default. How I do that without you is where I’m at today. I don’t know. I really don’t. I’m just glad I answered your call that morning. That one of the last things you said to me was, “I love you sissy.” A gift and a stab in the side. Which brings me full circle. I just have to live in this weird place and do my best. Better not bitter. Ride the swamp boat and answer the phone. I’m trying.