Some would say she likened a fairy or a nymph. She was small, so small that I towered over her by age 10. I hadnt even hit puberty yet and I was taller. I used to call her shorty, and auntie like an ant. She was beautiful in every way. she had brown curly hair that turned reddish in the light, and when she smiled her whole face moved upward and all the constellations of her freckled face shifted on her canvas sky. Its cliche for a reason, but she did have all this light within her, she lit up everything with her presence she couldnt help it.

Some call them super novas, the ones who have gifts and talents that they expend without effort, they burn so bright with such fervor that they extinguish before their time. oh of course its always their time, in the great scheme of things right. but it didnt feel like time enough.

She was 27 when she died, just a month shy of her 28th birthday, on a cold operating table, with a thin cloth drapped over her body and a knife cut into skin. they say bone marrow transplants are excruciating. she had already sickened her body with chemo and sacrificed her hair.

all i can think is i want to meet the donor, who went through that to save her. that let them go into his/her body and extract part of themself.

she deserved it. she deserved it more than so many. so why is she fucking gone.

what is my life now. when the two most important women in my life are gone.

dont forget her kristi#dont forget her smile and what it sounded like when she laughed how she would tilt her head back how she would laugh with her whole body. her tiny little body.

would they have tenderly picked her up from thattable would they have put her gingerly in a box to burn her body.

i am my mothers sorrow. i am her mistake. i am the pain and sadness from her womb from the reminder that she was lost. lost to a man that hit her. that took her for granted. why am i from this family of abuse. no one knew how to treat eachother. were we always things father. were we always meant to be things

all i remember of her are these stupid moments. these moments that included food mostly. no wonder i abused it. no wonder there are parts of my flesh that i cannot rid myself of. i cannot go back.

lets play in the backyard, i will make you a drawing. i will write you a letter with an ant design on the front. i will hug you hard and tell you i love you. maybe i learned it from you. i dont remember. i cant remember why is memory so flawed. it was meant to matter. it was meant to stick. what remains with them with any of them but these silly memories, not the ones you wan tthem to keep. you have no control do you.

i dont know how to find peace in this well of grief. i dont know where its meant to be found

i go down the stairs and there she is in the forest against a tree. she is crying, she goes to wrap her arms around the tree, she wants comfort but only feels the damp moss and splinter. she is alone here. younger than thirteen. i always imagine her like 7 or 8. Not quite nine. no things changed when i was nine, but i knew i was damaged before.

i cried so hard when my grandfather died, and i barely knew him. i hid behind my bed and toys, i hid under my blankets and sobbed. i was only 6 then and i understood when people died they never came back.