Sis

Reserved.  You reserved your words for when they mattered.  Your hugs for those you loved.  A healer, a nurse.  Easy to laugh and bring light to those that surrounded you.  Cutting with words and mending as well to suit the situation.  Sometimes, sometimes showing your vulnerability but always so resilient.  So self-assured.  So competent.  Headstrong.  A bull-headed taurus.  A lover of animals and friends.  Memories crash like waves.  Tears fall unbidden.  Laughter breaks the silence.  And we love you always, all ways.  Every new experience missing a piece.  The unfairness of it all.  The anger.  The palpable sense of loss.  I sat in the parking garage at Kettering hospital when your brother was admitted the beginning of March this year crying uncontrollably.  The memory of talking with you years ago when he was admitted and your calm steadfast comforting voice hurt not to hear it this time, to never hear it again.  To know that we will never hug you again....heartbreak.  I took some roses, pretty lightly colored pink ones, to your grave today on your birthday. I wore your favorite colors, pink and green. I cleaned the weeds off your plot.  I told you about the global Coronavirus pandemic, your brother, the boys, your parents, your friends, and how nurses like you need help.  How they are being applauded but don't have protection.  How you know how broken our healthcare is. I made promises.  I thanked you for the pulse oximeter that was yours that we use daily now. I cried silent tears, but the sun peaked through the clouds.   I apologized for crying. I pulled myself together.  I brushed the dirt off, took a deep breath, and headed down the knoll.  I heard you.  Lean on Me was playing on the radio as I left the cemetary.  All ways, Meaghan.  Always.

The price of insulin is killing Americans