Missing Her

 Five years ago, the day after my firstborn's graduation, I was awakened in the middle of the night by my mom. In the fog of sleep, disbelief, and denial, I don't exactly remember what she said. Only that I needed to wake up because something very wrong was happening with my sister. 

Downstairs I learned more of the truth that I still couldn't wouldn't comprehend or accept. Andrea had been found unresponsive in her home. She didn't wake up. It was too late to revive her. 

My brain immediately began trying to make sense: it's not her; it must be a friend. The poor friend probably overdosed, so Andrea left to get help. To not get in trouble. Or hadn't even been at home when it happened. Every scenario that played out in my mind brought her back to life. But as time crawled by and phone calls brought details and words like coroner and identify, the heavy truth refused to change. She is dead.

What they say about time healing wounds is both true and false.

She is gone. That raw fact hurts still. I long to be able to pick up the phone and share some silly thing that happened. Or tell her exciting news. Or even to mother her about choices she is making. 

I hear someone complain about her sister and feel slapped. I wish she were here to complain about again. I wish she were here to complain about me again.

I see quotes about sisters and remember she was someone I once had. I want to go back and be better for her. To not argue so much. To love her in the way that she needed. 

I am mostly ok. But some days I miss her so much.