Yesterday Once More

Yesterday Once More . . . 

Yesterday was May 11 on the calendar. Four years ago, May 11 was the day I said goodbye to my sister Mary Jo. She was laying in her bed, getting weaker and weaker from the metastatic breast cancer ravaging her body. She had first faced a BC diagnosis in 2006, then a different, primary lung cancer, diagnosis in 2010. After symptoms returned, it was determined in early 2018 that her breast cancer had metastasized, spreading to body parts such as her lungs, bones, and eventually probably her brain as well.

The third strike of cancer took her out. She died on June 16, 2019. It was Father’s Day that year. I took comfort in my belief that Dad was there, on some level, to welcome her.

I also believe that Mary Jo now has peace, a peace that surpasses my limited understanding. But I miss her. I miss phone conversations and visits to Colorado and standing in her kitchen talking and walking in their neighborhood. And the gifts and other treasures she would always find at local thrift stores. I appreciate the memories, but miss her presence or her voice coming through the phone. 

Speaking of phones, I haven’t taken Mary Jo out of my contacts, and I can still hear her voice in some messages I have saved. Fresh grief arrives when it will. Fresh grief takes many forms. When it is a loved one I am grieving, pictures and music often help me tap into the emotions and move me through them. Grief is an ongoing presence and process.

Four years ago yesterday, Mary Jo and I held hands and I read her one of her own poems.

Yesterday, this Carpenters song came into my mind, so I listened:

Last evening, as I walked with a friend, I captured this beautiful picture of clouds and blossoms, and I felt hope.

The hope is still here this morning. I am still here today. Both of these are deeply profound statements. Onward!