I’m taking this week off from writing to attend to pressing personal business. Today, I’m reprinting a slightly revised version of a piece that appeared here about one year ago, around my sister’s birthday. My sister Lorrie may be gone but she is not forgotten.
So Sad
September 22 marked my sister’s seventy-sixth birthday. However, Lorrie did not live to see it.
Her health had been in steep decline these past several years, yet it’s entirely possible she just gave up on living. Certainly, she must have understood death was the probable outcome. I sometimes wonder whether she willed herself into an early grave, a terrible self-fulfilling prophecy.
For nearly as long as I can remember, Lorrie seemed profoundly unhappy. I never understood why. My sister was smart, pretty, and multi-talented. Yet, even as a kid, I would observe my sister frittering away her gifts and wonder whether her actions were intentional and self-inflicted.
As an adult, Lorrie had settled for a job beneath her exceptional intellect and skill, then chronically complained about how she hated it until the day she retired, several decades later. Too, over the years she let her good looks go as she metamorphosed from slim, to chubby, to fat, to severely obese. This excess weight undoubtedly contributed to an early death. Lorrie must have known where things were headed. Yet, as I recall, throughout her life, my sister stubbornly refused our every exhortation to change, to grab control of her life until it was too late.
***
Last week, the remaining family got together over dinner to celebrate my nephew’s forty-sixth birthday. Lorrie’s sons, Kevin, the birthday boy, his brother Alan, their significant others, Kevin’s two adolescent children, her ninety-four-year-old surviving spouse, and me, were gathered at a popular neighborhood restaurant.
Our waiter brought the drink orders just as the appetizers were arriving. Before anyone could sip or sample, I stood up, raised my glass, and proposed that we toast Lorrie in remembrance of her birthday. I looked around from face to face. My nephews looked expectantly at each other and me. Lorrie’s husband Ed, who is nearly completely deaf, stood up and raised his glass, though I am quite sure he had no clue as to the reason for our toast.
Everyone stood. No one said a word. We sipped our drinks and sat back in our chairs. Later, looking back on the evening’s festivities, this silent toast to Lorrie felt sad but strangely fitting.
***
I can recall playing “hide the keys” with Lorrie in a bedroom that we shared before the family moved up in the world and we got separate bedrooms. These memories are among my earliest happy memories. I must have been around four. It’s been so many years.
When I recall my sister, it’s a fond memory I can revisit. Unfortunately, there aren’t very many more. Now, too late, so sad.
