Mistaken Identity

On occasion, when I’m milling about Old Town or on campus, I am approached by people who mistake me as my sister due to the sound of my voice, the melody of my laughter, the manner in which I walk or the similarities in our facial features. Though we live in a somewhat small town, our social circles were different enough that our lives rarely overlapped.

It’s only after an often confusing conversation about how my hair looks so different, ‘remember the time we were at…’ , have I heard or seen ‘so and so’, and ultimately ‘Why are you acting so distant and weird’ that I’m able to figure out that they are a friend of AunT’s, and that once again I must somberly relay the passing of my sister.
Enough time has passed that this task has become easier, yet the wave of sorrow experienced by her friends who we were unaware of, or unable to pass along the information onto is as fresh and overwhelming as if was just yesterday, not a year and a half ago.

I must swallow my own sadness and provide them with comfort until my own quiet moment in the day occurs and I can mourn for her once again. Only now, I am able to revel in the joy of her life as well as the sorrow of her death. And that alone is a precious gift. I love her and I miss her, but I also have so many memories of her that she will forever remain a part of my little family.

Even the kids say so.

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