Stories
You write not just any story, but this story. The words you form are not just any words, they grow out of the reality of death. What is the story of the story you're in?
The story I’m in feels like just that - a story. It feels as though there must have been some big mistake, a giant cosmic error.
There must be some misunderstanding. This must be someone else’s life.
I’m ready to file a grievance with the Universe. It must have been under the impression that I could live without her. Can you see now what you’ve done, ripping her away from me? How exactly did you think this would go?
Parts of my brain keep telling me that the story is real. You were there, Jenn - remember? Remember crawling into bed next to her as she lay dying, remember feeling your heart break when they carried her body away? Remember picking out the box for her ashes, writing her obituary, delivering her eulogy? Remember that you can’t text her now, that you can’t hug her anymore, that she wasn’t there for Christmas?
And yet, for all that, the story never feels real.
My head presents the facts, but my heart can never catch up. I don’t think it ever will.
They tell me she is dead, but I refuse. I refuse to become a character in that story. The role of big sister to dead Melissa is not a role I ever want to play.
No, no, no. You can keep that story.
I will write my own story. The story of how I will keep loving her, keep sistering her, keep being with her as I always have. It might look and feel different now, but in so many ways she is very much alive. I feel her. I know her. I am with her, and she is with me. Our secret language knows no boundaries. She is with me everywhere.
Dead? Nope. That is YOUR story. Keep telling me the facts all you want, but that story will never be mine.
The story I’m in feels like just that - a story. It feels as though there must have been some big mistake, a giant cosmic error.
There must be some misunderstanding. This must be someone else’s life.
I’m ready to file a grievance with the Universe. It must have been under the impression that I could live without her. Can you see now what you’ve done, ripping her away from me? How exactly did you think this would go?
Parts of my brain keep telling me that the story is real. You were there, Jenn - remember? Remember crawling into bed next to her as she lay dying, remember feeling your heart break when they carried her body away? Remember picking out the box for her ashes, writing her obituary, delivering her eulogy? Remember that you can’t text her now, that you can’t hug her anymore, that she wasn’t there for Christmas?
And yet, for all that, the story never feels real.
My head presents the facts, but my heart can never catch up. I don’t think it ever will.
They tell me she is dead, but I refuse. I refuse to become a character in that story. The role of big sister to dead Melissa is not a role I ever want to play.
No, no, no. You can keep that story.
I will write my own story. The story of how I will keep loving her, keep sistering her, keep being with her as I always have. It might look and feel different now, but in so many ways she is very much alive. I feel her. I know her. I am with her, and she is with me. Our secret language knows no boundaries. She is with me everywhere.
Dead? Nope. That is YOUR story. Keep telling me the facts all you want, but that story will never be mine.