Here it is again. Today.
That day that is never easy, even when I keep convincing myself as the years pass it will be. This is the first year it actually seems to all hit home at once. Today is a day for both of you, you for the obvious reasons, and our father for his birthday, and neither of you here in my life anymore. Should I be glad you missed the second part of that? I wouldn't want to you to be touched by that. I don't want this touched by that either.
I went to visit you today. I wasn't sure I would for half the day and in the end, even with sound advice, I went today because I remembered how stark it felt last year not to even have the option to turn down when there was an ocean between. So I went, to the church that will always be my church if anyone asks, even if I haven't been a patron in over two decades.
Where Father Paul's truck no longer sits like a bright red sign in the parking lot and the church hours have shortened to before one now. But I was tenacious and I found someone who let me in. Walk down through all those rows and pews to the place where your name still sits hallowed in light and I can drop into that chair. Thirteen years old. Twelve years ago. You aren't there, but I still went, go, something.
The beautiful rainbow lights of the stainglass, the ever red carpet, and the ceiling. That ceiling that still owns me on every first and next glance at it. It will never not be the ceiling of a great Arc, with its sweeping timbers. This is home, too. A home that resides inside my chest and less than fifteen minutes from my home. Where my second baptism/dedication was. Where I was given the freedom to be pagan by the priest who love me and didn't approve, but told me, honestly, that my father's books would not hurt me.
Where, for the rest of time, what is left of your earthly body rests.
I sit there in that chair, telling myself I am fine, until I am wiping tears off my cheeks. Until, beyond being twenty-eight and full of love and acceptance, I can, with all the love, unabashed bias, helplessness and overpotectiveness of a fifteen year old, look up at my favorite cross in the whole world, with my favorite Lord and Savior on it, and address him and every other name that might have once had letters under the sky, and whisper "You best be taking good care of her" with no regret for all the inherent threat those words might hold for that second.
You are my angel. My little star. My only baby sister. No matter where you go, or what you become. So I sat there next to your name. Looking over to see that Gramma and Grampa Cook are both next to your names. So much of time changes, but this doesn't, you don't, my heart doesn't. You are my genesis ripple. The core of the core. Who I am, have become could not have been without you.
Even if I am protective at the whisper of your memory, I cannot even envision you at this age. One-fourth of a century. No, I never feel comfortable saying you would have been, because you wouldn't and you weren't meant. It never feels right to say. But I can wish you had or were or would have. That I could show you emerald bright maple leaves in Korean spring and still throw snow at you in northern America. My best, heavy, pest with her coffee percolating snore.
I drove home, listening to your music. You are my Sunshine and Maybe She's an Angel. I can still make through all of Little Star, but I lose the ability to make any sound at the first line in the chorus One Moment in Time. Dearest, little one. You and your foggy green eyes are part of me and my heart forever and ever. I don't hold your life or death against anyone anywhere, man or god, and I know that you are full of light and joy and peace where you are now, but I doubt it'll be anytime soon that I'll let go.
All my heart, for all of time,
Your sister,
Amanda
I went to visit you today. I wasn't sure I would for half the day and in the end, even with sound advice, I went today because I remembered how stark it felt last year not to even have the option to turn down when there was an ocean between. So I went, to the church that will always be my church if anyone asks, even if I haven't been a patron in over two decades.
Where Father Paul's truck no longer sits like a bright red sign in the parking lot and the church hours have shortened to before one now. But I was tenacious and I found someone who let me in. Walk down through all those rows and pews to the place where your name still sits hallowed in light and I can drop into that chair. Thirteen years old. Twelve years ago. You aren't there, but I still went, go, something.
The beautiful rainbow lights of the stainglass, the ever red carpet, and the ceiling. That ceiling that still owns me on every first and next glance at it. It will never not be the ceiling of a great Arc, with its sweeping timbers. This is home, too. A home that resides inside my chest and less than fifteen minutes from my home. Where my second baptism/dedication was. Where I was given the freedom to be pagan by the priest who love me and didn't approve, but told me, honestly, that my father's books would not hurt me.
Where, for the rest of time, what is left of your earthly body rests.
I sit there in that chair, telling myself I am fine, until I am wiping tears off my cheeks. Until, beyond being twenty-eight and full of love and acceptance, I can, with all the love, unabashed bias, helplessness and overpotectiveness of a fifteen year old, look up at my favorite cross in the whole world, with my favorite Lord and Savior on it, and address him and every other name that might have once had letters under the sky, and whisper "You best be taking good care of her" with no regret for all the inherent threat those words might hold for that second.
You are my angel. My little star. My only baby sister. No matter where you go, or what you become. So I sat there next to your name. Looking over to see that Gramma and Grampa Cook are both next to your names. So much of time changes, but this doesn't, you don't, my heart doesn't. You are my genesis ripple. The core of the core. Who I am, have become could not have been without you.
Even if I am protective at the whisper of your memory, I cannot even envision you at this age. One-fourth of a century. No, I never feel comfortable saying you would have been, because you wouldn't and you weren't meant. It never feels right to say. But I can wish you had or were or would have. That I could show you emerald bright maple leaves in Korean spring and still throw snow at you in northern America. My best, heavy, pest with her coffee percolating snore.
I drove home, listening to your music. You are my Sunshine and Maybe She's an Angel. I can still make through all of Little Star, but I lose the ability to make any sound at the first line in the chorus One Moment in Time. Dearest, little one. You and your foggy green eyes are part of me and my heart forever and ever. I don't hold your life or death against anyone anywhere, man or god, and I know that you are full of light and joy and peace where you are now, but I doubt it'll be anytime soon that I'll let go.
All my heart, for all of time,
Your sister,
Amanda