You Should Be Here

Sometimes memories of my sister come to visit while I'm simply getting through the day. This evening as I was browning ground beef for dinner, I pictured her doing the same. She was standing in the kitchen at our church building, helping the youth prepare a spaghetti dinner. I could almost smell the garlic bread she'd have in the oven while joyfully encouraging everyone to participate. This memory returns like clockwork each time I'm cooking ground beef. Yesterday I braved the crowds during a bag sale at the thrift store since I was on a mission to find boots for someone. This brought to mind the mornings my sister and I would wait outside our favorite consignment store just before it opened on dollar days. We always had our game plan ready to grab the items we'd spied earlier in the week. I usually arrived just before she did and waited for her to pull up and wave with a wild grin. A few weeks ago, I borrowed a carpet shampooer to clean our floors. Even this mundane task was associated with memories of my sister. Each spring, she and I would rent a Rug Doctor together to tackle our carpets. Her labors were particularly arduous since she lived with three males who continually brought the great outdoors indoors. She would move all the furniture, clean each stairstep and shampoo inside all their vehicles. We would discuss the various shades of water we dumped with each cleaning, always thankful for a fresh new start. So, while there is the absolute heartbreak of knowing she is missing the momentous occasions like holidays and the new milestones of our boys, there is also the palpable absence of her in ordinary moments. I don't normally listen to newer country music, but there are words from a song that frequently come to my mind. While some lyrics aren't entirely relatable, I keenly feel the lines, "It's one of those moments that's got your name written all over it. And you know that if I had just one wish, it'd be that you didn't have to miss this. You should be here."

Home

Even though I haven't been able to return to South Dakota since our parents moved to Houston in 2010, it is comforting to know that our farm is still there. Sometimes I daydream about turning into the long driveway again and taking inventory of what has changed over the years. Today I learned that our barn has been torn down by the current owner. It wasn't a complete shock since I already knew that the roof had fallen into disrepair, but it was still devastating to know that it's gone. This building was the setting for countless memories. I can almost smell the straw that was neatly stacked in the top floor. I spent many hours there, stealthily following our mother cats to find where they'd stashed their kittens. I rescued baby barn swallows that had fallen out of mud nests, ever (wrongly) convinced that I could raise them. This was one of my refuges when chased by evil roosters or maniacal geese. It was here that I had an encounter with an emaciated opossum, which I mistook for a pitiful cat and came within inches of giving it a nice pat on the head. This barn housed a wide variety of animals over the years. We were able to watch piglets being born and bottle-feed calves. There were sweet lambs and soft bunnies. We gathered warm eggs from beneath hens and fed more cats than we could count. We played hide and seek in the dark with our childhood church friends in the fields around the barn. In later years, it became a storage spot for Dad's '61 Ford Galaxie. He'd patiently given me driving lessons in this car that lacked power steering. We set up a volleyball net in front of the barn after church potlucks on our farm. In the bedroom I shared with my sister, we could look out the window that was adjacent to our wall of Shaun Cassidy posters and catch a glimpse of the barn. Dad's bountiful garden was tucked behind the barn. He spent contented hours in the shade of the building, digging up potatoes and weeding green beans. While I'm thankful that photos and memories can stand the test of time, the world feels a little less magical once again. https://youtu.be/qkP6Tf79UrM

Teeter Totter

This month my Facebook memories have been filled with posts from seven years ago. We'd finally gotten the news about a kidney for Jason, but were met with life-threatening complications in the days that followed. My sister was right beside me during each new development. She rushed to KU with us after we got the call, and kept me calm during surgery until we could see him in recovery. She urged me to remain hopeful when the doctor sat us down and shocked us by saying that we might lose him to a rare complication. After I'd gone many hours without sleep at Jason's bedside, she booked me a hotel room and insisted I take a break. This was only one of countless crises she saw me through over the years. A few weeks ago, I began having dreams about Laura. They've been vivid, and stay with me long after I leave my bed for the day. One morning, I woke in such a panic, and started to call Chuck before I was fully awake. In my mind, I was calling to tell him that I was on my way to their house to see my sister. I'd been dreaming that I'd forgotten to check on her in these past months since we lost her. It was difficult to shake the feelings of profound grief when I remembered that she was gone. I've always known the balance was off in the teeter totter of our relationship. She was ever protective and strong while I was usually an absolute mess. I've been wishing that I hadn't depended on her as often or required so much of her time and energy as she tried to keep me up. These past four years, she continued to support and encourage me, all while enduring unimaginable struggles of her own. There would never have been enough years to repay her for the millions of ways she held me up. And, of course, she didn't keep a tally sheet anyway. Still, I find myself wishing I could go back and dig my heels into the ground and take my turn holding her up.