Brooke

So, my sister died seven and a half years ago.
The day that was her birthday is Monday.
It should be something that is good - a nice time for me to remember how beautiful of a person she was and how appreciative I am that she was a part of my life.
It would be a time for me to crack a smile as fond memories of her running through the halls laughing weave their way in and out of my thoughts. I still know exactly what her many laughs sounded like, and sometimes I can still hear them in my own. I remember her smell, the details of her hands and the feel of her hair. I occasionally catch myself saying how much she loved a certain movie or activity.
I also remember her pain. I remember her whimpers as another needle bruised her fragile skin. Or her exhaustion from having to take yet another pill. I remember her silent tears and the reddened whites of her eyes. And I remember the feel of her hand as it stiffened in mine - and the very horrifying realization that she'd just taken her last breath.

I remember so many things. I cherish who she was.
I wish that was enough for some of my family.
I wish that Monday was a time we could remember how beautiful she was, and realize how beautiful we all are - and take a moment to see how much we've healed.
But that's not what it is, ever.

I don't want to go to what they have planned.
I don't want to see how some have chosen to handle her death.
I don't want to feel so alone in a group of the only people who could understand.
I want to remember her beauty.
I want to remember that I am whole, and that she is a part of that.