And after the harshest goodbye, there were two— my sister and I. Where our mother once stood, there now was a hole, an empty space. Where once there were always the three of us, now only two remained.
In reality, since each of us felt like half of who we were, like entire portions of our hearts and souls were stolen, it was more like one. Like we went from three to one– minus our mother and each half of what we once were.
Two sisters grieving a loss that felt unimaginable.
Each in our own way– both alone and together. A reality that neither of us knew how to comprehend or manage, a war on our hearts and our futures that we had no energy to face. A journey that came early, before we were taught how to survive it, and certainly before we were prepared. Though I wonder, can you truly prepare for this type of goodbye, this type of forever gone? Surely not.
Our minds can’t grasp a pain so intense until you’re in it– catapulted into the abyss of grief, a reality and feeling like you’ve ever known. You’ve seen loss before, but now you’re encompassed by it. You’ve heard of grief before, but now it’s penetrated your heart and soul– sharp and mercilessly. You’ve been taught about death, but now you’ve witnessed it. You’ve breathed in a new breath when your mother wasn’t given that opportunity.
You’ve watched as life and death switched places.
That type of scene, this type of experience, it changes people. It’s how we will both walk out of this place different than before— sisters still, but both so catastrophically different. I don’t say anything, but I wonder if we’ll recognize one another when all of the pain settles and our new reality sets in. I wonder what kind of sister I’ll be when I’m the kind that doesn’t have a mother. I wonder if my sister ponders the same dark and unanticipated thought.
All our lives there were three. And then there were two. And then there were two that each felt like half.
One day I pray this empty space, this massive sinkhole that has been created through the loss of our mother, is filled with her memory and her lasting legacy. But right now, there is only loss.
There is only minus one, which feels like minus everything.
We went from having a mother to losing one. Two sisters forever changed, forever grieving. Two sisters with shared sorrows and more importantly, a shared responsibility to never let the world forget a woman we never will.
And in a glimmer of hope I think, maybe we weren’t reduced to one less, from three to two, because where my mother once stood, now stands her legacy. Still three– though different than before. She was too great, too special, to ever be a minus or a negative. We’re still three– always and forever, even from heaven.
