Imagine you are on a spaceship, far from the protection of a planetary atmosphere. Without warning, the hatch breaches, and all of the breathable atmosphere is blown out into space.
You immediately become aware of two sensations: First, the total absence of sound. Your world has now become a desolate void of permanent silence.
The second sensation is one of suffocation. No matter how hard you try, you are unable to draw breath. Part of you—an essential, important part—has been ripped out of you, leaving behind a painful emptiness that can never be filled.
Such are the sensations when someone you love passes away. A part of your world is gone, and you can no longer hear nor draw breath. The damage, I’m sorry to say, is permanent. (Time does not, in fact, heal all wounds. It scabs over somewhat, but it rips open at the slightest touch, raw as the moment it was first inflicted.)
Ten years ago today, my sister's voice fell permanently silent.
She was more than a mere sibling to me: she was a trusted advisor, a fashion consultant, a mentor, an inspiration, and a friend. I was her little shadow, trailing several steps behind. Her wing always protected me, even if she would have rather I had been born a girl. (She reminded me of that fact often.)
I'm older now than she ever was in life, yet I still feel like a bumbling, baby brother. No matter how long I live, she'll always be older and wiser...and I'll always need her guidance. I regret that she never knew how much I looked up to her while she was alive. But, she knew she was loved, so that brings a small measure of peace to my troubled heart.
It seems impossible to survive ten years in a vacuum, but time has relentlessly marched on. I think of all the things she has missed. I reflect on how things would be different if she were still with us. The world would certainly be a brighter place.
But such things are not ours to comprehend.
We just have to do what we can to honor one life by living ours, even if an essential part is missing.
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