On this very day 13 years ago, my sister died.
I remember how grief felt in those early days, and all the strange things my brain did to try to understand what was happening. How my mind could not accept the reality of her being gone. It kept flickering between acceptance and rejection, again and again, like a radio stuck between stations.
I would see people in the street who looked like her, thinking, Wait—what? Is that you? I would have dreams of her showing up, looking unkempt and dishevelled, telling me she was sorry, but that she had to leave and she’s here now. But where did you go? I would ask urgently. She could never answer me.
I remember how I felt when I woke up from those dreams. How the rest of my day felt like my chest had caved in on itself.
The grief back then felt like a terrified beast trapped inside me, clawing and ripping me apart in its desperate attempts to escape. I wanted it out too, more than anything, but I couldn’t figure out how. So it just stayed.
It’s 13 years old now, on this very day, and I am its home.
It’s not the same as it once was. I no longer cower in terror at its presence. Now it has its favourite spot in my heart, where it curls up to sleep like an old sleepy dog in front of a warm fireplace. For months at a time, it stays relatively still. But I know it’s there, and in some ways, it brings me comfort knowing it is.
Its claws and fangs don’t sink into me as easily anymore. It doesn’t pierce through my soft skin the way it once did. It’s older now. Tired and worn down. Its once-deadly edges have blunted with time. But it still has power. Every now and then, sometimes without any warning, it wakes and jangles around in my ribcage with incredible force. It knows how to make itself known.
But I no longer want to be rid of it. Instead, I’ve come to find a strange kind of comfort in its presence. I think it’s because, in some small way, it is one of the places she still lives.
It is, in some way, connected to her. A thread of love tied to a deep well of loss.
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