I am thinking about my sister today.  

This February, three days before her eldest son’s birthday, it’ll mark three years that my sister communicated, through her best friend (the woman who married my beloved and me on the steps of San Francisco City Hall in 2008), that she didn’t want to hear from me or about me, “ever.”  For her own reasons, which surely made sense to her at the time–I’ve only been able to make sense of them from a novelistic standpoint; the indirect, unlikely path the heart picks through grief–and evidently they continue to work for her  now (or at least so I hope; otherwise, what a tragic waste, a pointless denouement to a far bigger tragedy).

 ‘Til now, though writing is a deeply therapeutic map-making enterprise, I’ve not written about it here, out of a vain hope to keep a door open, a light on.  But “ever,” I’m starting to consider, is longer than a few years. I will leave the door open and the light on, but it’s time I got up and went about the business of being and healing myself.

All I can have gleaned from our trip to the dark side of the moon, I’ve gleaned long ago: hearts can break and come back together in brand new shapes; ancient relationships can be knocked out of orbit, for good, and for reasons beyond one’s ken.  The unpredictable aftermath of pain this big can be so challenging that it causes key eyewitnesses to freeze and go mute, or perhaps find their distance vision distorted by the heat waves emanating from the pavement.  Side by side with these observations: not a week has gone by, since late March 2005 when my nephew died, that I haven’t at some point stopped short and caught my breath at just the glimpse of what losing one of my children would feel like.

(Anything can trigger it: the sight of my son or daughter asleep in bed; my daughter’s elongating body, slowly becoming closer and closer to the size his was during the nine months he was dying; the feel of my children’s sleep-heavy bodies when I lift them from the couch at the end of the night, or from the car at the end of a long car trip, so like the body memory I have of carrying him in my arms; a look I give my children that reminds me of looks I saw my sister give him; the sight of a parent standing in the window of the fifth floor cancer ward at Children’s Hospital, a building I pass every time I get on the freeway heading south.)

And the thought that always follows is: anything, for the rest of her life, is okay, if it helps her get through the rest of her life with a hole that size in the center of her heart.

Would the lifelong, hairline cracks in our relationship have remained only hairline, were it not for the gale force of this sorrow and loss? I’ll never know. What I do know is that I continue to wish her godspeed on her life journey, whatever sort of healing it takes her to. And that my best birthday gift to us both, now and every year, is forgiveness.


8 thoughts on “Godspeed”

  1. I always love reading your words, and now is no exception. What a beautiful thing to write:

    “I’ve only been able to make sense of them from a novelistic standpoint; the indirect, unlikely path the heart picks through grief…”

    I can’t imagine the hole that this has caused in your own heart, and sometimes forgiveness is all we have left to us.

    • Indeed: it’s as big as my solitary sibling relationship, the only person who shares my mother-love, and she who knows, like few others do, exactly how and why my hair went so grey so fast. In addition to their oldest cousin, my children lost an auntie, an uncle, and another, very gentle and kindred cousin, a nearly impossible thing to try to explain to them, and something very, very sad to especially my daughter, who knew them and wanted them to know her.

      You are so very right: forgiveness is all we have left. And it should be known as the precious gem that it is. That’s my work right now.

  2. I have a sister who has decided, for various reasons, to cut the majority of the family out of her life. At one point it was everyone, but she recently brought our mother back into her life.

    I made mistakes. We all made mistakes. I apologized, and tried to forgive, but she can’t let it go – and it’s been many, many years of feeling terrible about myself, as if I’m subhuman and not worthy.

    Her choice. Her decision. Not mine, and I will not let it color the rest of my life.

    My children see it clearly, as children are wont to do, and it’s led to very interesting conversations that might not have occurred – but I refuse to allow it to dictate who I am, who I will be – and I will not spend any more time worrying over it.

    I wish you well.

  3. Compassion and love radiate from your words. I hope that your sister and her family can feel it whether the words reach them or not.
    And I hope that compassion and love fill your day, as well.

  4. Well, this just knocked me on my ass -what a complicated thing our sibling relationships are, and as you say, I hope her reasons are enough for her to continue on this way. It’s just a damn shame, sometimes, isn’t it, the way things have to be sometimes. I so hope your sister reaches out to you. Life is too short, as you both know all too well.

    I’m going through a voluntary -on my part- separation/ripping off the bandaid of friendship, with my best friend. It’s not the same. No. But there is heartbreak, and never a day goes by that you don’t feel the sting.

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