I do not write much about my sister or my brother. Both committed suicide during their teen years, and twenty six years later it is still difficult to even talk about. Recently, while in Charleston, I had connected via Facebook with my sister's best friend. Her note hit me like a bolt, and I stood next to the Market Place, holding my friend's, Ron, Ipod Touch, with a stunned look on my face, and tears in my eyes.
It was an opportunity to tell Ron.
For the people that I do tell, I know it is difficult for them to know what to say. And it is here that I usually try to steer the topic to something else. However, this time, it was different. I had been doing calculations in my head to determine how old my mom and dad were. They were thirty-nine when my sister died.
I am now older than my parents when their first child died. With two daughters of my own, I can not even comprehend how they survived one, let alone two. My brother died six years later.
It was a hard lot that they were dealt. Mom and Dad are the strongest people that I know.
I love you both.