Again the Sad Girl woke up. Wide awake with the scream dying in her throat.

“Who is my father?” she screamed to the Woman with the Rock in Her Shoe for the countless time.

But like the living, the dead don’t ever answer even in the convoluted world of night terrors.

The Sad Boy draped his arm around her and pulled her close in his sleep. He was used to her nightmares. He knew how to save her from the demons that haunted her sleep.

Knowing she was safe, even from the mother she fought in her nightmares, the Sad Girl fell back to sleep.

 

 

 

Now I know why I dreamed of my mother.

It seems the Sister Who Shall Not be Named has prematurely exited this world.

Facebook, once again, has been the herald of family death and tragedy.

It pained me as a writer, a reader, your half-sister and worthy nemesis that no one captured the essence that was you.  Was I the only one who saw the glory that made you?

I cannot let that stand as your only tribute on the never ending pages of the internet.

You loved flowers.  So I will give you a bouquet of words that will never grow old or wither and die .

No one wrote about your vivacious personality. Whether it was in happiness or any other great emotion, your passionate nature brought life and color to those around you. You would not be ignored, regardless of the circumstance.

No one remarked on your beautiful face. Or how your large brown eyes, be they stormy or gentle, expressed the complexity of your soul.

Nor did anyone tell about your love of art in all its forms. Ceramics or Christmas crafts, doing art was a part of who you were.

I wondered sometimes if you still quoted cartoons like we did as teenagers. Bugs Bunny or Fred Flintstone always had a quip for every situation. And now you have exited stage left before your part played out.

Your edict, passed to me third hand, not to call or text or write or in anyway communicate with you, was not surprising.

It didn’t matter. Your flare for the dramatic was consistent- making a surprise entry or a strong memorable exit was your forte. It was a shame that I was the only who noticed. You, dear sister, were one of the unsung greats.

And like every great thespian, by all accounts, you had a drama filled and tearful last breath.

Well done, and I mean this with all my heart. You did not go “peaceful into the night” but fought death with everything you had.

Death has only won a battle. It will never win the war.

And with more tears than I care to shed, I will look forward to a drama free reunion in Heaven.

May you rest in the Peace of the Lord.

 

The Sister Who Shall Not Be Named

 

 

 

 

 

 

Goldilocks