Today you would have been 27; but you will never be older than 22. As the years have gone by, the memories have faded little by little.
Someday I may forget that you were the first of Ian’s little sisters to call me your sister. I’d never had a sister before; I was surprised and delighted to be welcomed so quickly into your heart. Someday I may forget how happy you were when we asked you to play the flute at our wedding. I may forget how you always insisted my son would be born with blue eyes but with a brown spot in one eye, just like yours, and how disappointed you were that his eyes were just plain blue. I may forget how persistently you told me that Stephen had to be born on your birthday (and how you teased that you would never forgive me for waiting until the 29th to go into labor).
I may not always remember the sad things either. Perhaps someday I will forget how much my heart ached when I saw how you suffered in your relationships, and how you gave your heart to men who did not deserve you. Perhaps someday I will forget how disappointed I was every time I saw you light a cigarette. But I will always remember the intense pain, the shock, and the despair I felt when we received the phone call we could never have expected: that you had been in a car accident and had not survived.
I may forget the details but I will never forget you, my first little sister. I love you, and even if I don’t think of you every day, I always feel the absence of you in our lives.