Tribute to my Angel Sister, Amanda Lauren

Dear Amanda,

Today, you would have been 31. Happy birthday to you, dear sister! 31 years ago, you were chosen to walk among the angels instead of live a life here with us on Earth. The more of life that I experience, the more challenges faced, I realize more and more the immensity of your loss and the effect it had on all of us, even those of us who came after. How our lives would have been different. Had you lived, I may not have been. Mom and Dad tried for so long to get you, suffered so much heartache and sorrow, that you would have been their miracle baby. Would they have had the desire, the will, to try for another? Would they have mustered the strength to take the risk, possibly enduring further heartache? It is an odd thing to ponder. Still, you are indeed a miracle. It is an honor to share a middle name with you, but as you know, we share far more than that. I believe you are with us every day, in our hearts and in spirit. You are so very loved. Always.

This summer, Mom showed me the only picture of you that she has, the ultrasound picture of you at approximately 7 months, just 2 short months before you were born sleeping. I’ve grown up knowing your story and honoring your memory, missing you even though we’d never met, but that picture brought me to tears because there you were. Heart beating, little body growing, very much alive, captured forever in time in that one photograph. It upsets me that the doctors or someone in the room when you were born didn’t take a picture of you for us to keep. It would have been hard to see but at least I could have seen you, and at least there would be another picture of you besides that one ultrasound and the ones taken of your tiny little white coffin at your funeral. They have people that do that now for parents of babies born still. I’m glad for that. Did you know that Grandma Kendrick kept a purple flower from your service pressed between the pages of her family Bible? When I was growing up, she often wore purple, and now I sometimes wonder if she wore it to honor your memory.
Even though we’ve never shared moments like other sisters do, I know I’ve been blessed to have my sister by my side. I know you’re there, always. I’m grateful you were there to greet our grandparents when they passed on, and that you get to spend time with them now and have gotten to know them and love them as I did here on Earth.  I know you were with me in the operating room three years ago, standing by my side, holding my hand, when no one else could be. And even though I’ve never seen your face, I feel as though I have. I envision you have long brown hair, probably thick and wavy like Mom’s was. But perhaps you would have cut it shorter as you aged. Would you have glasses? Maybe you’d need them but unlike me, I think you’d wear contacts and I think you’d have Dad’s brown eyes. I think your nose would be smaller and a bit upturned like Mom’s and Grandma’s. For some reason, I think you’d take after Mom’s side more, like I take after Dad’s, so I envision you’d be taller than me. Would you be married or have a partner? Would I be an auntie? What would you do for a living? Would you be language/word oriented like me, or more math minded? Would you have played an instrument, or been more athletic? Would we have quarreled growing up, like siblings often do? 

As I grow older, and especially around the holidays when people gather together with their families, I often think of you and miss you all the more – because you should be here too, you know? Really here, smiling right beside us in the family photos, arm slung around my shoulder or hugging me close, helping cook the Thanksgiving feast, exchanging gifts, laughing at old stories, sipping a beer or a glass of wine, enjoying a slice of my famous pecan pie, ribbing each other for this or that. And I understand more and more the pain of what would have been. That’s what hurts the most, I think, the knowledge that there is so much that you’ve missed, that we’ve all missed, with each passing year that goes by and you’re still gone. I wish you could know the love, the immense love, that we all share for one another, our family. At my lowest points, I’ve talked to you and I know you’ve heard me but what I wouldn’t have given to pick up a phone and call my sister, hear your voice on the other end telling me it was going to be alright, that I just had to take it one day at a time, that you loved me and were there. Maybe that’s an idealistic view of what our relationship would be like, because I really have no idea, but our family is close and always has been, so I cannot imagine we wouldn’t be best friends, that I couldn’t call you for support or advice. And maybe you wouldn’t have all the answers or even say all the right things all of the time, but I know you would’ve cared and would’ve tried your best. 

So today you’re 31. Usually, I’d go to the cemetery to lay flowers on your gravestone, and tidy up your plot. Sometimes I’d go alone or with Mom or Jason but this year, I can’t go at all and that is hard for me. I know it doesn’t matter to you, because you’re in our hearts and always with us, but it means something to me that I won’t be there. Thank you for watching over us all, for being the beautiful soul I know you are. Thank you for being with me in spirit – and for being with Mom and Dad when they've needed to feel your love. I can’t see you but I know you’re there and when times have been especially hard, and when I have known great fear, you have been a comfort to me, assuring me through the wind or the rustle of leaves, the melodic tinkle of a windchime or the crash of the ocean upon the shore, that it will be alright. It will all be alright.

Much love to you today and everyday,
Me