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The summer Janet died, she was forty-two, my youngest sibling, my best friend.
Her loss was devastating. Sometimes I can't remember what she looked like -- the color of her hair, her eyes. Memory is fragile, and I hang onto every recollection because I never know when it'll vanish and Janet will disappear, too. I cannot let that happen.
Her passing seemed so sudden. One minute we were taking our kids to the park; the next minute she was gone. She no longer called to say hello. No one talked to me about her. Sometimes I spoke her name aloud, just to prove she'd existed.
That winter, I walked alone at night in the city. Getting mugged was a possibility, but I didn't care. I looked for Janet in alleys and along the waterfront. I'd see a flip of hair, a familiar dark coat -- little glimpses -- and I'd follow until I got close enough to see it wasn't her.
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