Mimi

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.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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6 Responses to Mimi

  1. Mil gracias, my friends.

  2. Larry Zuckerman says:

    This is why I love you John.

  3. juan says:

    I remember the telephone call I got over my father’s massive heart attack. He died in the throws of love (proud to say). Aurora, his girl then, was never the same. As you can imagine, she was deeply affected.

    And so at 3 in the morning I had to do what is apparently the legally expected — “identify the body.” My brother Frank would not go, and neither would my sister, and so I opted to go in that hospital room where my father’s body lie on a gurney.

    It was not my father. His eyes were empty and his mouth agap. And so it made me think that when death “takes” it takes all.

    All we are left with are memories. And so that becomes VITAL.

  4. Susanne says:

    Sounds like she was a wonderful person.

  5. Mosha says:

    Touching, John…

  6. Joyce says:

    Beautiful thoughts, John.

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