~This morning my mother phoned the mother of my sister’s murderer. I’m not surprised by this act of empathy because my mother is a living saint. “Saint Shirley.” She said they both sat on the telephone and cried and cried and cried. That’s all.
Who would have imagined that the son that grew inside that mother’s womb would kill the daughter inside my mother’s womb? But it happened. It happened two weeks ago.
And the world I knew ended.
On May 26th my world became dark; like a candle snuffed out, like the sun dissolved, like every corner of the universe was suddenly consumed by shadow and shade and shit.
A flower left out.
My sister’s soon to be ex—husband made the decision to shoot her in the head three times, wrap his arms around her, and then commit suicide. I can’t help wondering why he didn’t kill himself first. I can’t help wondering why he didn’t just die. I could have gone to his funeral and survived. I might have shed a tear for his pathetic existence. I could have gone to work the next day. I could have gone forward. I could have loved my sister for another fifty years. I could have…
Stayed the same.
She was walking out the front door to take a walk. She was texting my dad. She had one hand on the door knob perhaps thinking about what she would prepare for dinner. She had the rest of her life to think about. A life without him. Liberation. Freedom. Me. Always me. I would have loved her forever and ever.
We had tickets for Sex and the City for the May 27th. We were leaving for a girl’s weekend in August in Minneapolis. We were planning Father’s Day. We were….
Intertwined. Tangled. Contained by one another’s roots.
Everything stopped in one minute. All things darkened and dimmed in one minute. Life lessened and flowed into a million narrowed, rotten, useless, insidious minutes.
I loathe those minutes. Every. Single. Day.
When he shot her; he shot me. When he put the gun to her beautiful head, I wonder what he said to her. The coward that he was, I assume he said nothing. I hope not. Oh, Jesus, I hope not. I don’t want his acidic voice to be the last thing she heard. I hope she heard the chickadees chirping, the mowing of grass, the yellow canaries in her brown feeder, the whispering of the future. I hope she heard the voice of God calling her home.
I hope…I hope…I hope…
In the meantime; we are picking up the pieces that Kay’s murderer left behind. We are going through her house, her dishes, her clothes, her nine bags of half used lipsticks, the snapshots of her life.
The strange this is; I was doing okay until I saw the small food processer my mom bought her for Christmas. There were still bits of nuts inside from her famous chocolate chip cookies.
And I can’t stop crying. I just can’t stop crying. The world is so much less than is was. I am less.
And I don’t know where to go from here…