A Goodbye

Today my sister died. Over the past year and a half since I first posted about her she was in and out of the hospital several times, often on the brink of death once again. In between times she would get sober, vow to stay sober, until the disease of alcoholism got her once again within its grasp. Her struggles with all of her demons are now over, and I hope that eternity holds some comfort and peace for her.

When my brother told his wife that Julie had died, she said, "For you, she died a long time ago." It's true. Estranged from her for decades, my brother and I could never really come to terms with her or the disease which finally killed her. Years ago she broke the bonds of family, and never made the effort to restore them, aside from an occasional phone call, usually while drunk. Just a few weeks ago she called and left a voicemail that she wanted my brother's phone number so she could call him on his birthday. Her speech was slurred and it was difficult to understand her. I didn't call her back. I'm not even sure I regret not calling her back.

I haven't felt bitter toward her for many, many years. Just sad. Sad that the little girl for whom I once realized I would give my life never found her place in the world. She married once, and had several children, then divorced and had several more children. I only met her first child when he was a baby, though my father kept in touch with most of them over the years. I don't know what they think of their mother, or how they are feeling now that she's gone.

A few weeks ago I asked my father for an address where I could send Julie a letter. I used to call her "Jules." I thought I would just send her a note to let her know I was thinking of her. It felt like time to do that. My father sent me the hospital's address just the other day. I hadn't written the letter yet.

My baby sister is gone. A part of me--a distant, quiet part of me--feels the pain of loss, feels the pang of guilt, grasps the finality of death and failure. 

If I shed a tear, will it be for everything she never could be, or for myself, and all I wasn't for her? I wrap myself in thoughtfulness, and sit in still and silent grief.