The Emily in me, a beginning to more writing about my sister

Approaching the one year anniversary. Over and over again, telling myself that this is real, that I will never see her in person again. It still feels impossible, like I will wake up from a bad dream. But I know this can’t be a bad dream, because I also know that if the tragedy didn’t happen, Tavi wasn’t conceived, or born. If this were all a dream, this whole year, I never would have gotten married or moved to El Cerrito. I would do ANYTHING to turn back time or travel back in time and make Emily still be alive. ANYTHING. But it happened. It fucking happened. WTF.

That’s the Emily in me at Barnes and Nobles, when I look around at everything and see possibility, excitement, creative inspiration. When I decide to buy the entire three seasons of Downton Abbey for Lena, even though it’s expensive. That’s the sort of gift Emily wouldn’t think twice about buying. As most gifts were. But tv show gifts, in particular.

That’s the Emily in me when I lie on the floor and let Bean lick my face. Not caring if it’s germy or dirty, or where her tongue has been. Just feeling the love.

That’s the Emily in me when I think up new ideas for teaching my students. When I am in awe of their 11 year old brains. When I want to get carried away with YA stories, right alongside them.

I try to see her when I look in the mirror. I think she could have been much more beautiful than me. I always wanted her to have health, have a fullness to her. She was deteriorating for so long. The mark of illness and poverty were there, on her face.

Lose

Stupid Sara Levy. It's not fair that she "won." She's out there, being happy with her husband and adorable children, being smart and rich, having a sister, a brother and two parents. Being recognized and praised for her creativity. FUCK YOU SARA LEVY. You hurt my sister. She was gonna prove you wrong one day. She would publish her YA novel and become famous and live an exciting life and you would just grow old and fat and unhappy in your marriage... But instead, you got the last fucking word. You're a fucking evil bitch and I hate you. I hate you because you hurt my Emily. I hate you because you didn't come to the funeral. I hate you I hate you I hate you.

Words fail

People have told me many times in my life that I'm a "good writer," which I guess means that my writing flows well, or expressions emotions, or is clear. But I wish I could be a "good writer" in the sense of being able to find the words to work through my grief right now. I wish I could write out, in words, the loss I've experienced, and that by doing so, somehow, I could heal myself. Maybe that will come later in the grief process -- months or years from now. In the meantime, all I can say is OW. Something hurts BAD. A chunk of my innards has been removed. Something has gone terribly wrong, like I fell into a bad dream and haven't been able to wake up from it. And even though positive things also happen in this "dream" (getting married, becoming a parent), it is still a nightmare that I've found myself in.

Maybe I can never really find words that express what the loss of my one and only sister means to me. Maybe all I can do is keep looking for similes and metaphors, even though they'll never quite suffice. What is it liking losing your sister? It's like you've been plucked out of a life you thought made sense and plopped into one that makes no sense at all. It's like being told you can never drink water or breathe air again, but somehow, you'll keep living.