Remembering My Oldest Daughter, my Oldest Sister
Even after almost three years, the memories remain fresh
It’s been almost three years since my oldest daughter passed away. Today she would have been 43 years old, had she not contracted a late-stage cancer that she succumbed to about a year after her diagnosis.
We didn’t have the best of relationships, and the last year of her life gave us a chance to reforge our father-daughter bond. It was not a year I would trade for anything, other than the final outcome.
She didn’t find it easy to share her feelings, other than her feelings of hurt when she felt slighted on a job. Most of the time, she focused on the good things that were happening, or the wild adventures she went through, like when she got a flat tire.
So for most of her adult life, I watched her from afar. I followed her on social media, and heard from her sisters and brother about some of the things that she experienced. When she asked for help, I helped her, but this was rare.
I wonder how long we think of those family members who’ve died before we begin to put them away, file them in the back of our memory. I remember Mom once remarking that she found herself talking to her mom, out loud, even five years after her mom died.
