June 2, 1958 – September 15, 2018.
When we celebrated your 60th, I didn’t know I’d never see you again.
Today started out so fine.
I cooked, wrote and painted;
I planned a festive lunch for Sunday.
And then the phone call came.
My brother-in-law sounded odd –
“Are you sitting down?” he asked.
A weird wind whistled in my ears.
And my breath seemed stuck.
“I am sorry to tell you,” he began –
He described a curvy road,
And a small car colliding with a bigger one.
“She didn’t make it,” he said.
Just yesterday, we were four healthy sisters –
Joany, Anne, Barb and Cathy.
And tonight, we’re only three.
How can you be gone, Anne?
Should I keep my sorrow inside?
Or allow myself to fall apart?
My movements are slow; my mind feels like mush.
My face mirrors the pain I feel.
On Monday I will travel to where Anne lies.
Barb is relieved that I’ll be there.
We’re sorry that Cathy won’t be able to come.
Will we ever get used to Anne’s absence?
We three, and our brothers,
will always miss our sister.
So will her loving husband, her two grown daughters
And the four grandchildren who were her greatest joy.
We loved you Anne. And we always will.