My little sister died yesterday. She was 58. Pancreatic cancer. I turned 65 the day before that.

[calimary]

28. We all share those complaints and that witness.

I’m so sorry for your losses and the hills you’re this forced to climb. The lost loved ones you’ll never see again.

Small comfort: there’s a couple of people who are dear to me who I’ve lost - who I still talk to all the time, anyway. I take it on sheer faith that they can somehow hear me and know how I feel, whether it’s anger I’m STILL working on getting through, or love, however unrequited and maybe even fanciful - what never quite got off the ground and all that. I still talk to ‘em.

And they can’t interrupt, question what I’m saying, or yell at me, or tell me I got it wrong or that it’s somehow all my fault, or hang up on me. And I always get the last word!