#greif

I realized I stopped writing. That I no longer know the days we've been separated. Its been too many to count and it has become the new version of my life. Have I stopped writing because I have settled into the pain or the greif of it all?

It no longer feels raw, like it can't be contained. But, it's always present in these little ways, creeping in the back of my mind. However, now I am managing. I am managing at life, which isn't something anyone ever wanted to say about themselves.

When I lived in Italy my professor used to say, "we will manage" like ti will all be okay, we'll get through it and it was comforting. But now, my state of being wonders, how long will I be managing and getting through it. When will it pass to feel like I can truly look back and say that I've done it. That I have survived the hardest period of my life. Will it be light on the other side? Will I be happy?

My voice. My big sister.

I never told you, but I loved you.

This letter is both an apology and an acknowledgement.

You were the best sister I knew. In any lifetime, my soul would find yours a thousand times over—and love you even harder.

I'm sorry I never knew what you were carrying: the hurt, the pain, the shame, the broken dreams... a life interrupted.

I'll spend the rest of my life reminding Gabby how fiercely you loved her. She was never an accident. She was deeply wanted and deeply loved.

You were our warrior princess—so innocent, so pure—yet you carried one of the most stigmatized diseases of your time. You were Momma's good girl, the one who always tried to get it right. You deserved so much more than the hand life dealt you.

I'm sorry your story ended at twenty-five.

I'm sorry I never told you how extraordinary you were. I didn't have the words then. I didn't have the wisdom. I was only twenty-one, trying to navigate adult pain with a child's understanding. I wasn't equipped.

Today, I forgive that twenty-one-year-old version of me.

I hope every little birthday gift I sent you whispered what I didn't yet know how to say: I love you.

Because I did.

And I still do.

You will never be forgotten. As long as I draw breath, your name will be spoken. Your story will be told with compassion, not shame. You were never your diagnosis. You were never your mistakes.

You were Lucy.

My northern star.

The sugar in my tea.

I'll never get to hear her talk again, she was such a vocal cat. She was so pretty too, big yellow eyes with specks of black. A little white mustache. Very long fur, not too soft though, you could tell she was an outdoor cat. Sweet girl loved to jump through the tall grasses and showing off her mice she caught.