My first real brush with grief came with the loss of my elder sister Joanie. It’s hard to describe who she was to me when I was a child. She was the first person in my life to ask my opinion and to value it, even as a small child. She was relentlessly curious , kind and respectful, not just to me, but to everyone.
She was intelligent, well read and extremely creative and often invited me to help with her many artistic projects. I still have tons of art that we worked on together and a love of literature and poetry that she shared with me from a very young age.
It wasn’t until after she died that I realized that in many ways, I had lost not just a beloved sister, friend and soulmate, but a kind of second mother. She was almost 7 years older than I was and so I looked up to her endlessly. To this day, many of the things that she said and the wisdom that she shared are still with me.
She never got to meet or know my children, but I feel that the best part of my mothering is inspired by her. Because of her, I always feel I can do any creative endeavour I set my mind to. It never occurs to me that I can’t, because that’s what she did and we did together.
I’ve been blessed with two amazing sisters; one’s still here on earth (and next door at the cottage!) and the other’s cheering us both on from the other side.
We love you, Joanie.
Wearing Joanie’s Socks
In the dark of early morning
birds call me to remember
I sit silently on my front porch
listening to their chorus
I watch the sun rise pink and gold
against black outlined tree branches
and think what a beautiful world this is
and how I wish you were still here to love it
When my cup of tea grows cold
I go into the house
And I put on your socks
Soft and warm and purple
Just like you
Comforting without a word
The way you did
Unique and whimsical,
Tiny pearls for flowers
No label but love.
Loose threads,
Worn and wooly
And I remember what you taught me:
Inner strength
Warmth
Beauty
Comfort
Solitude
Uniqueness
Gratitude
The comfort of being loved just as you are.
When despair awakens me in the early morning hours
I put on Joanie’s socks.
Missing You Joanie
I miss you.
I wore your socks for a few years
I’m using your teapot
Doing art and sharing your wisdom
And yes,
so often your words come back
To remind or inspire
To make me smile or think
Or sadly remember
that there are no more.
I am telling my children
Who you were (or are)
They know
their Aunt Joanie died
before they came.
And the other day
Gemma took your picture
off the fridge
And put it somewhere
She knows you were (are) special
They know how much I loved you (love you)
I miss you.
George took you from me
More than once.
The first time at 12, again at 20 and forever at 47.
“47 is a good age to be” you told me on my last birthday
I still listen to your message
Is that weird?
It would have been a good age except
That’s how old I was when my sister died.
53 was a good age. Or it should have been.
And so would have been 57 at your son’s graduation
or 67 at your daughter’s wedding
Or how about 77 with grandchildren around you?
More brontosauruses to build, volcanos to erupt,
Things of beauty to make with your own hands
that the world will never see.
Guess what? You’re still gone
And I still miss you.
