I suck it up, because I have to, and I get out of the car, and Mom buys the sewing machine. I am officially thirty years old. In a way, this is just like every other day. Mom’s timing is just like everything else. It happens whenever, not at the perfect moment. I will not be given information in scheduled bits when I am emotionally prepared for it. I will get it at work, or on my birthday, in front of any number of people. As always, I will keep things under control because the world doesn’t stop for the emotionally unprepared. There is no use in railing at my mother for bringing up the darkest moment of our lives and incorporating it into the brighter moments. It is already there, whether we talk about it or not. It seems normal to us now.
There are no answers here. No one ever found out who left my big sister’s body charred and desecrated on the roadside. There is no punishment, no revenge, no closure. No matter where I go, or how old I get, I will always be “that girl whose sister was murdered.” My brothers and I will wear our memorial tattoos for the rest of our lives. Nearly seventeen years have passed, but it is more real to me now than when it actually happened. It may have something to do with maturity, or maybe I can properly process the information from a greater distance. Whatever the case, I still feel lucky just to be able to realize when it is affecting how I view the world. I do okay, when I stop to remind myself that there are not monsters lurking around every corner. Just some of them.
