~~One blink of an eye. A single flutter. Eyelashes touching a bottom lid. Open. Close. And before your eyes close a second time…
Darkness sets in.. Shadows arrive. The love of your life has been shot three times in the head.
Life changes, a family is torn apart, a world becomes reduced to something you’ve never known or imagined.
EVER. Not in your most horrifying nightmares.
After my sister’s murder, I faced darkness directly in the face. I never turned away. I absorbed Every. Single. Detail.
Her laying powerlessly on a breathing machine. The doctor of death giving us the news.
Brain Dead. What does that mean? What the hell does that mean?
The preparation. The fucking preparation. It never ended. The insignificant idiotic preparation.
The ironing of salmon colored shirts for the pall bearers. Sitting with the gray haired man discussing the ceremony. How many seats will we need? Do you want cake or cookies? Coffee or punch?
I don’t give a shit.
Seeing her inside a shiny brown casket like a shell of who she once was, something that shed its skin, a porcelain doll.
Emptiness. Hollowness. A soul removed.
She was always beautiful. Always the beautiful one.
I ordered the autopsy report. I want to know, needed to know everything the son-of-a-bitch did to her.
She had a bruise on her right arm. She still had the remnants of a bullet inside her head. She had three caesareans, a healed scar on her left ear. Brown eyes. Brown, highlighted hair.
She had been healthy until the monster shot her. Not once, but three times to make damn sure she’d never awaken.
Then she left me.
The report said HOMICIDE on the front page.
I wrote to the recipients who received her liver, her spleen, her lungs, her kidneys. I sent them a lovely photo of her in a long shimmering white dress. I now have that dress hanging in my closet. The scent of perfume is gone.
“Kay was our angel,” I wrote. “She was my world.”
I wanted to know. I wanted to see. I needed the reality to sink into what was left of my being.
I’ve heard that people actually die of a broken heart. I never believed it. Thought it was fictitious.
I think what they really meant is one dies from the inside while their hearts are still beating.
I saw everything and I can’t stop writing about it. I write until I’m vacant. Then the words fill up all over again and again.
All of this darkness…
Yet I can’t put my Christmas tree up this year because most of the ornaments are from Kay.
Silver sister’s kissing, ‘I love you’ hearts, cats with furry tails, women dressed in tiger outfits, and some gingerbread men we made together from cinnamon and apple sauce. And she bought me an angel that sings- “You Are My Hero.”
How can a heart hurt so desperately, so incessantly?
I decided to decorate her tree next to her gravesite instead. Hang some of her favorite things from it…Pearls, Hearts, and I purchased one special one in particular:
Two sister angels hugging. That’s how it will be one day. That’s how it will be.
What else do I have to give you, my dear? How else can I love you?