Rose was never far away. She was my kid sister, just a little over a year younger than I. Growing up, we played together, we read books, we laughed. We got older. She was my counterweight, radiant with loving encouragement when I did something good and rolling her eyes at my stupidity when I did something bad. Companions.
She died last year. Cystic Fibrosis. She fought like hell against her tired, scarred lungs in a hospital bed for seven months. I was there for all of it, trying in my clumsy way to help her read the writing on the wall. She was 26.
I am not sure what life is supposed to look like without her. What it’s supposed to be. It’s dimmer, off-kilter. But after casting around for answers, what makes the most sense is simply to go back to the beginning. Here you will find a (near-) daily post, the first word that I consciously see every morning when I wake up. It could be in a book, in a sky-written message, the back of a cereal box. Who knows? The point is to start looking. To learn how to read again, this time without her.
What do we see when, despite all odds, we open our eyes to the world?
This is for you, Rose. ❤