I still remember the pain and the sadness as my parents tried to explain to my sister and I that she was gone. I still remember that first Christmas without her, and the emptiness that was on everyone's faces. When I look back I still remember her voice, and her smile, and so very many of the happiest times I shared with her. As an adult, approaching 30 at warp speed, I feel an even greater sense of loss. I am doing things now that I had never thought myself capable of accomplishing, and she will never get to see any of them.
Every morning I wake up and put on my scrubs. I clip my name tag to my shirt and rest my stethoscope over my shoulders. I go to work and make every best effort to positively impact other people's lives. I do that in memory of her and also because of her and the circumstances surrounding her death. However, I will never get to hear her say. "Good job, Chris!"
In my spare time I cook with and for my friends and family, and I am quite good at it. It just kills me though that I will never be able to bake her a birthday cake, or make dinner for her, or have her taste something I made myself and see the look of surprise on her face when she came to understand that it was made by the same little boy who used to pretend to cook with her old-fashioned egg beater, and pretend that the down pillows were loafs of bread in the oven, and the pillows on the couch were pies.
I think the hardest part for me, though, is that while I remember so much of her, and our short time together, my younger sister doesn't. Jennifer is a year younger than me and while I hope she remembers something of her, she doesn't recall nearly as much as I do. And while I can reminisce and share stories with other people in my family, I feel almost guilty that Jenn can't recall things the same way I do; and that we cannot reminsice and share mutual memories about being in her house or driving in her car, or spending time with her from the perspective of two small children. In some ways, perhaps she is luckier.
My Memere's death affected me greatly. It impacted me in ways that no four year old should have to go through. However, my sister got over it and moved on with her life. For me, though, much of my heart is still sitting in a hospital room at the moment the guardian of the gate called her name.
I remember as a child I would wake in the middle of the night crying because I wanted my Memere to come back to me. It has happened many times since then, and now is no different.
I can only hope that someday I will get to see her again, and hear her voice, and cook dinner for her, and knit her a blanket for her bedroom. More than anything, though, I would hope that on the day I see her again I will look her in the eyes and hear her say, "Good work, Christopher. You've made me proud."
Il est longtemps que je t’aime, Jamais je ne t’oublierai, Me’mere.
