Today is the fourth anniversary of the death of my sister, Mary Eleanor, who her brothers and sister and nieces and nephews and many of her friends called Melnor or Mimi. I suppose I always will miss her; it’s only natural. And I suppose remembering her always will bring about a certain sadness; it’s a sadness that won’t dissipate for several days. It’s the same sadness that arises around her birthday.
But that sadness will recede into memory, at least for awhile. Other memories of her will crowd out the sense of loss, memories of her exceptional sense of empathy for people less fortunate than she, though she was decidedly unfortunate in so many ways. And other memories will arise, too, like memories of her being livid at others’ misfortunes at the hands of greedy corporate behemoths, then taking action on their behalf. Or memories of her sometimes bizarre sense of humor. But then the memories will revert to sadness, as I recall all the times she took special care to check in on me to see how I was doing; she was always concerned about how her little brother was getting along, even though I was almost invariably doing better in most respects than was she.
Today, I remember Mimi, as I do many days. But today I will linger a little longer with those memories and be grateful for the time she had to share with the world.