This weekend marked the 20th anniversary of my sister’s death. I’ve written a lot about Kylene, her life and mourning her. On the 8th anniversary of her death, I shared a poem she wrote. A year later, in my post “A Lonely Anniversary,” I expressed having a feeling of loneliness that I could place…until finally realizing I was missing my sister. And I shared another one of her poems.
On the 11th anniversary of her death, I was once again “Thinking of Kylene” while reading through one of her journals. One of my favorite posts about her is “No Matter How You Do The Math, Death Death Just Doesn’t Add Up,” where I memorialized her life and tried to make sense of her death. And, of course, there is “The Story of How I Became A Writer.”
Mourning is a life-long process, and something that often weaves its way into the stories I write. In my upcoming middle grade novel WITCH TEST, I once again explore this concept. The main character, Liza, was only three when her mother died in a car crash. Now 13 and friendless because her ex-best friend, Abby, has turned on her, Liza finds herself thinking of her mother. New and confusing feelings surface.
An ache settles in my chest, strong enough to make me groan out loud.
I think I miss my mom. Maybe that’s what’s been causing this feeling of loneliness that has been overwhelming me all afternoon. I think somewhere deep inside of me I’ve been missing her a long time, but this whole Abby thing has finally made me realize how much I lost when I lost my mom.
I never thought of it like that because it’s weird to miss someone you can’t remember.
Witch TEst
I think about the complicated feelings of losing someone young. As time passes, you change and the person you are mourning would have changed. I’m no longer the person my sister knew, and she would no longer be the person I knew. I miss who she was, and I miss who she would have been, even without knowing who exactly that person would have been. I also miss who I would have become if Kylene had lived.
Like Liza, I wonder if “miss” is the right word. In her case, she wonders if she can miss someone she doesn’t remember. In my case, I wonder if I can miss the versions of my sister and myself that never existed. All the while knowing I miss who she was.
I’ve come to call this complicated set of feelings “long mourning.” When the sharpness of new grief has faded away, you’re left with a longer pain — an ache that never really goes away, occasionally punctuated by a sharper pain.
So I guess that’s my convoluted way of saying I still miss my sister — in all the many ways you can miss someone who died young — 20 years after her death. I’ll suppose I’ll continue exploring those feelings in the stories I write, and in my own way, celebrating and mourning my little sister, Kylene.
