| deteha'a | Pity | Ely Shoshoni | Graham 2008 |
My older cousin once explained to me the concept of being without—learning how to live in a new way and moving in a direction that is uncomfortable and frustrating, but moving nonetheless.
Three years, four months, and eighteen days ago, my eldest sister passed away. She loved Prince, reading, analytical calculations, driving, naps, fresh fruit, a good dental cleaning, and the genuine love offered by any animal. But above all of those things, the memory I hold closest is simply that she loved us. No matter how hard you were trying to make sense of a situation, she was never critical—she just wanted to understand. I took for granted her place in my life and her gentle voice of reason. When the world seemed to be working against the hopes and goals I reached for, she just wanted to make sure I could find myself if I ever got lost. She was my favorite babysitter, and for most of my life; I was her greatest admirer. I always knew I was safe with her. There are very few holidays—especially Easters—when I don't think of her. I miss her, but I know the world is not always kind to firstborn children. I take comfort in knowing she is healthy and whole now, in a place where her humor and thoughtfulness can continue to shine. I feel her presence in the sunshine on a cool morning and in the comfort of a cool evening breeze. She loved us.
One year, eleven months, and eighteen days later, my last living sister left this world in her sleep. We had already survived the loss of our mother and the loss of our oldest sister, lamenting each time we had to "activate the phone tree" so our family could make collective decisions. We had used that same phone tree just five months prior to her passing to help make difficult medical decisions for her—always prioritizing her fierce desire to live. She truly enjoyed life: she pushed right up to the edge, felt the vibrant energy of everything, and took just enough to remember what was possible. I miss her every single day.
Our mother always told us that we didn't need outside best friends because we had each other. We knew each other deeply, and we were taught to take care of one another. I have spent the last three years digesting these losses and feeling deeply grateful for the room and support to grieve. Over this past year, I have known a grief so profound that I could taste and feel it. I never truly knew what it meant to be my own person until I had to walk through this world without the women who raised me. But this summer, I realized that I have become everything they hoped I would be: a mother, a woman of my own worth, and fully self-reliant.
I grieve them, and I know I will never be the same. When our granddaughters come into this world, I hope they learn to invest in and trust the bond they share with one another. That sisterhood is the greatest gift we have to offer. I look forward to seeing their smiles, hearing a young woman with the exact same laugh or mannerisms step into the world, and knowing that my sisters continue on through them.
My children are older now, and together we have come to understand what it truly means to be a witness to a family navigating loss. Over time, I have had many conversations with my extended family about the days and events surrounding my sisters' passing—because I simply do not remember them. My big, beautiful brain did what it had to do to protect me, forcing me to rely on the people who stood as my witnesses to walk me back through three of the most difficult days of my life. My deepest love and gratitude will always be with them for holding those memories for me, and with you for taking the time to read this and reflect on the monumental people who have shaped your own life.
