Sisters

I was going to write an article about how my oldest sister died at the age of 62, at the top of her career and enjoying being the grandmother of twelve children, half of them infants and toddlers. I was going to opine about how short her life was cut, how bravely she met her challenges. I was going to mention how she jam-packed the years she had with more achievement than most people who reach 90.

I was just having a little trouble finding the words.

Then, exactly eleven weeks after she died, my second sister suddenly died. She was even younger.

I had just stopped wearing black.

So I knew then that I had lost any control of this story. The story is in control, so, ready or not, here it comes.

My second sister also enjoyed a brilliant career doing what she loved. Not teaching math teachers how to teach math to children, like Susan, but writing. She was a well-known local author and former journalist.

Both sisters did not live long enough.

Both sisters were high achievers.

Both sisters were brilliantly intelligent and did what they wanted with their lives, but their careers were only the capstone.

Both sisters--in different ways but using their amazing talents well--put their families first.

Both reached out to their communities, were kind and compassionate. Both sisters gave of themselves unselfishly. Both endured their illnesses with courage and cheer and hope for being well just around the corner.

My second sister, Linda, has been housebound with more than one chronic illness for years. She has been in constant pain and averaged one good day a month--in a good month. Yet, she never failed to remember a child in the family's birthday with a special, thoughtful present she knew they would enjoy. She honestly never complained. Unable to sit for long periods of time, she recently completed a novel on her laptop while lying on her back. It's a good novel--I read it in one night because I couldn't put it down.

Both sisters left great legacies. I want my children to know and remember them.

Upon finding out about Linda's unexpected death, my youngest sister, living in another state, scrambled to find enough sitters to farm out her large, young family to so she could come to be with the rest of us. She reports she was asked, "Didn't you already have a sister who just died? Is it the same sister?"

And then, "How many sisters do you have?"

"Not as many as I did a few months ago," she replied, "thank you very much." (I think that last part was an aside to me.)

I love my sisters.

Both Susan and Linda left warm, deep imprints on my mind and heart, and will never cease to live on within me and all others whose lives they touched.