I still love you. After so many years of your being gone, the loss isn’t the same - not such a cavern of emptiness, not such a fog of impossible and unbearable realness. Some days go by when I don’t even think about you. And things are okay. I’m pretty good. There are some pains and challenges - some lovely joys - lots of the humdrum tediousness of making it through a life. There’s lots of laughter, and these days, more time with family.  

Life is still a lot of work - so many details to take care of by myself. I guess you remember what that’s like. Tiny trees that have sprouted from acorns dropped on the roof under the live oak tree now lean out from the gutters, waiting to be uprooted. And the house needs painting again. The ditch out back doesn’t drain like it should, so the ground out behind the house is constantly wet. And the squirrels keep stealing seed from the new bird feeder, then spilling it all over the ground. The list of chores is pretty relentless! 

But there are good things too. I get to see my sister a couple of times a week. We are getting closer, sharing the everydayness of our lives. Yesterday I worked in her garden - pulled up weeds and ferns and grasses that had smothered her flowering bulbs. We went out to eat afterwards - she told me the same stories she usually does, all about the people at work; what she’s cooking lately; and about some book she’s read. I told her my own stories. We tasted each other’s food. Sisters. Like you and Helen were, in that sea of brothers. 

And I’m getting to know our cousins a little better. Last week I went to see two of our relatives holding court. I learned more about what they do; sat there, under the formal photos of several family members who had served over the years. It was pretty cool. I think you’d have loved it. 

And every once in a while, you still show up. Here I am, a five-minute walk from where you all lived as children. Everyday I pass by the spot where the house used to be. The old cherry tree I climbed in my teenage years is still there. The tall oak tree where you all used to set up picnic tables and boil seafood and drink beer still hangs over the yard. Some other family is doing that now, but seeing that spot makes me remember you. 

There’s not so much wretched sadness these days, not so much longing to have you around. I am loving you in a different way, instead. I am breathing the sweet damp air you breathed, walking the dark wet soil you once ran over, loving some of the things - and the people - you did. I’m carrying you around in my skin, in my bones - and together, we’re enjoying the heck out of this snarky and amazing life. I know it’s not the same. It will never be enough to take your place. But it’s a kind of food I can take in and absorb that shores me up. Like you used to shore me up. I think you’d be happy with that - that somehow, we’re still loving the world together. Such a remarkable thing.