I have mentioned that I had an older sister, Michelle. She committed suicide almost 13 years ago. Losing her was the hardest thing I've ever had to endure. The constant dull ache of her being gone is something I've accepted as a part of my life. Like breathing. But there are times the pain of her absence hits me in the gut, and I'm doubled over in pain with how much I miss her. Like when "I Sing the Body Electric" comes on my iTunes, or I catch a rerun of one of her favorite Seinfelds. Or I'll wonder if she would like Mumford & Sons or It's Always Sunny (for the record I think yes to both). Or maybe we'll be sitting around the kitchen table at my mom's being superstitious about the Braves, or playing a game or just laughing really, really hard and I'll stop breathing for a second because it's so unfair that she's not with us. She doesn't know that Margaret's married or that I live in New York City or that her son plays football and has somehow inexplicably turned into a teenager. I don't believe she's in heaven or that she is watching us but I do feel her sometimes because I believe that people live on through those they left behind. And my goodness she left behind a lot of people who loved her to the moon and back. Myself included.
In two weeks I'll be joined by family and friends in a walk to honor Michelle and to raise money for The American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. If you'd like to donate it would mean the world to me but positive thoughts and virtual hugs are also welcome.
And as always, thanks for reading my friends.