In Memoriam

July 24th isn't the best of days for me. Today marks the twelfth anniversary of my youngest sister's death. We lost her to a senseless act of violence on July 24, 1994.

The normal flow of life goes on, as it must, but the 24th of July has become a day of remembrance, a day of reflection.

I remember every nuance of that hot, humid Sunday evening in 1994 as though it happened last night. I remember what I was wearing. I remember what I was planning for the next day. I remember that my hair was sopping wet. I remember what I was doing when The Call came around 9:45 that night. It was my mother calling. On some level, I comprehended what she was telling me, but I kept mumbling, "What? What?" Finally, I handed the phone to my husband and told him to "Find out" while I paced the room repeating the same mantra over and over again: "Oh, my God. Oh, my God." I remember the unsettling dichotomy of feeling shocked to my core yet, at the same time, not surprised. We'd all known it was coming, sooner or later. My sister had predicted it herself, just weeks before.

After The Call came the almost slow-motion surrealism of The Scene, the preternatural calm demanded of us for the delicate Q&A with her (never charged) killer, the danse macabre with inept cops that would continue long after that night.

I remember it all every July 24th, relive much of it. When I plop down on the ground beside her grave in the lonely cemetery with an armful of flowers, talk to her, tell her what's new, the pain is as fresh and raw as it was twelve years ago and I cry as though my heart is breaking all over again.