My sister, Erin, was murdered 18 years ago today. She was only 15 years old.
To me she’ll always be 15 even though she’d now be 33. I’ve never thought about whether she’d be married with children now, because in mind she’s still “a kid”.
It still hurts to think about her but the pain is now less raw. The guilt that I felt over surviving while she did not still remains but I’ve learned to make a sort of peace with it.
Whenever people ask me about her, a thousand memories flash before my eyes. I see the little sister who would eat wonton soup with me and grill me about what kindergarten was like before butchering the hair on my Barbie dolls. I remember how she’d wake me in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep and we’d talk about anything and everything and she’d make me promise we’d always be close. I’m reminded of how brave and fearless she was on our first solo jaunt through the streets of London. And I can picture vividly the night before she died, the two of us babbling at each other in our weird made up language, much to the displeasure of her boyfriend.
I don’t hate the man who took her away from us. I know that sounds strange. I just don’t have it in me, I think. Hating him requires giving him conscious thought… and he’s just not worth it. He’s already taken so much from me without giving him that much more of my soul. And it’s not to say that I’ve forgiven him, because I don’t know that I have, but I don’t hate him.
Some people say that you somehow know you’re about to die, that you have some sort of feeling or premonition. I tend to agree with them. On the day my sister died, we saw an ambulance pass our car. She turned down the radio and looked at me, the picture of seriousness, and told me that she wasn’t afraid of death. I told her she was being morbid and tried to change the subject, but she continued on saying that when you died you didn’t hurt anymore physically or emotionally and you would be in a place where you would be okay. Considering the events that happened in the months prior to that day, I hope she was right.
The last time I saw my sister was a few days after her death when we were preparing to leave the funeral home for the church. I was only alone with her for a few moments. I remember telling her how much I loved her, how much I missed her and leaning over and kissing her face.
Every now and again I’ll tell myself that I wouldn’t remember her voice were I to hear it, or that I wouldn’t know her if I saw her. It scares me to think that there might come a time when I don’t remember her, so I hold on dearly to the memories that I do have. All those memories, good and bad, are all I have left on someone who isn’t here anymore.
If there is a heaven and an afterlife, I hope she’s there and that she knows how much she is loved and missed. I hope that she’s no longer in any sort of pain and that she doesn’t begrudge us having to go on with our lives without her. I hope I get to see her again.
I love you Erin and I miss you every single day.
Posts
