Grief

I kept the door shut for two months. It took that long before I could stomach what sat behind it. The smell of her perfume. The memory of finding her there--weak and wasted on some twisted mission to do herself in--the last morning she stayed in our home. The room became invisible. I just pulled the door shut and never looked back.

Until last weekend. I propped open the door. I threw her quilt over the bed. I pulled the shades up to let in the sunshine. I even opened the windows, taking up the storms so the screens would usher in fresh, spring air to replace the oppressive fog of lingering pain. I shoved the signs of her disease into drawers, tossed out the trash, brought in the boxes to pack away her few, pathetic belongings and pretended nothing phased me.

But it did. It consumed. It filled me silmultaneously with unbridled rage and debilitating sorrow ...

Just like the can of chicken soup--the one I bought for her when she couldn't keep real food down--sitting in my cupboard.

Just like the sound of an ambulance in the distance.

Just like the word vodka or sister or alcoholism.

Just like the lies upon lies I desperately believed to be truths.

Just like the memory of hugging her as we parted ways from a rare, but precious after-work dinner date--before she became a stranger, a ghost.

Just like the realization that I more or less lost my sister. I pray with all my heart that she returns. I miss her.