Love Story

 To misquote author Erich Segal, what can you say about a girl who died? That she was beautiful? That she was loved? Yes. But since her loss has left me...all of us, with a ragged wound that refuses to heal, I'm first going to talk about how damned annoying she could be.

Susan was a beautiful child who never sat still. She was so competitive that she had to win every race. We'd stand at the top of our back lane, and she'd shout, 'Go!' I'd watch her take off running, a resigned look on my face, knowing I'd lost before I'd taken a single step, because she was not just fast, but determined. She flew like a little bird, her white blond, cotton candy hair floating above her like wings. 

As a teenager, she started wearing black eyeliner, even though Linda and I told her it looked dumb. While visiting my aunt in California, she insisted on speaking with an accent that was one part British, two parts made up European royalty. 'That's not how she talks!' we'd tell the effortlessly cool teenagers my aunt would invite over, hoping they'd befriend us. Susan didn't care what we, or they, thought. She was living her best, fake accent, life. 

I still remember the evening when her band made their debut at our high school dance. I was so nervous, I felt like throwing up. But they were spectacular in their cool, matching outfits, like the Beatles. 'Oh, thank God,' I remember thinking. 'They're so good.' Her future husband, Brent, was in the band, too. Music was a huge part of their love story. Later, there was a family band, and they were a big part of our community's social life.

Susan was my best childhood friend. We were soulmates of a different kind, and we could practically read each other's minds.When we were grown and had families, we lived just a few blocks away from each other. Our families lived in each other's pockets...that was true of all the siblings in town. When I watch family videos, I'm stunned at the utter chaos: children everywhere, parents oblivious to the deafening noise. It must have been awful for anyone visiting.

Susan and I were choir buddies, along with two other sisters and a brother. We usually sat together, though we occasionally fought over our friend, Michelle, who sang all right the notes. Susan had a beautiful voice, but like me, didn't read music when our community choir got started. We practiced together diligently. She worked hard at it, like she did everything else.

She was always up for whatever crazy notion I got into my head, like painting my entire Rumpus room one Christmas Eve. After Clarence died, she helped me clean up the garage...a gargantuan task because of my Father-in-law's fifty years of 'collecting things.' We must have taken ten trips to the dump before having a massive garage sale. She was my navigator whenever I took a wrong turn pulling the trailer. What I mostly remember is how much we laughed. Especially when she opened containers to find the stuffed heads of dead animals. That was worth a scream or two.

I loved how our families fit together. There were our Academy Awards parties, endless theme parties, really, where we laughed and sang and played charades. All the births we shared, helping each other through, and crying too, when things were hard. 

Susan was exceptionally kind and brave. She spoke up to defend others, and became a birth coach, helping many mothers navigate the system. As an Educational Assistant, she was an advocate for children, because she remembered what it was like for herself and her siblings, every one of us with ADHD, which teachers back then thought of as Annoying, Distracted, Heedless Daydreamers. Because of it, she read endless books about parenting and child psychology. 

She was effortlessy beautiful, something I didn't really notice as a sister. Not until she was gone. She was brave throughout her illness, and so stoic. It was a privilege being with her for the last few weeks, especially on the night she drew her final breath. Such beauty and dignity, despite everything she'd gone through. She's with the angels, now, probably singing beside our friend Michelle. So here's to you, my sweet, beautiful sister. I love you. I miss you. And I know I'll see you again.