We lost you, sister,
and our hearts are heavy with grief.
Yet somewhere beneath the sorrow
there is a quiet faith—
a still, small knowing
that you are finally free
from fear, from pain,
from the battles we could never win for you.
Our story was never simple.
We grew up in the tangled places of life—
different fathers,
a mother doing the best she could,
and grandparents whose love
gave us shelter,
a place to belong.
Then came a new father,
a new home,
new chapters written
into the story of our lives.
And somehow, through every change,
through every beginning and ending,
we remained sisters.
Life carried us onward—
to steadfast husbands,
to motherhood,
to the seasons that shaped us
and slowly made us women.
Somewhere along the way,
we found our common ground,
and perhaps, almost, a friendship—
a bond not born because life was easy,
but because life was hard.
I thought we had defied the odds.
We held on through trials,
through illness,
through years that tested
the deepest places of our hearts.
And beneath all the hurt,
beneath the distance and the silence,
the love was always there.
There were wounds we could not mend,
roads we could not understand.
We would take one step toward healing,
only to find ourselves
two steps back.
There were questions
that lingered between us,
questions that may never
find their answers now.
You searched for something—
perhaps riches,
perhaps new places,
new faces,
new experiences,
or simply a way
to outrun the shadows
that followed you.
And while we watched,
wanting so desperately
to reach you,
our hearts broke
again and again.
Perhaps the deepest sorrow
was watching you search so far
for treasures outside yourself
while the truest treasures—
love, family, belonging—
were already waiting
for you to see.
Now you are gone.
And Mom is gone too.
And I am left here
with the silence,
the memories,
the unanswered questions,
and a longing—
more than anything—
for peace.
So I choose to believe
that what illness stole from you
has been restored.
That the mind is quiet now.
The fear has fallen away.
The shame is gone.
The confusion has lifted.
The burdens you carried
are no longer yours to bear.
And when the trumpet sounds,
I will look for you—
not as you were
in those final days,
but as you were always meant to be:
whole,
content,
well,
and free.
Until then, sister,
I will carry our story
with all its broken pieces.
I will carry the laughter
and the tears,
the closeness and the distance,
the things we understood
and the things we never could.
Because complicated
does not mean unloved.
Broken
does not mean forgotten.
And imperfect
does not mean
there was no love.
Through every trial,
every distance,
every wound—
the love was always there.
And it still is
