"See you at Home."

There is no manual for how to handle death. There is no right or wrong way to approach it. At eighteen, I had never experienced death before and it left me not knowing what I could or couldn’t ask for. What was or wasn’t allowed and was or wasn’t appropriate. On the day of the funeral we were brought in a couple of hours early to be fed by the church as a family and we were then given the opportunity to say goodbye before the coffin was shut. It had bothered me that I hadn’t had any alone time with my sister thus far and on the day of the funeral I was itching to spend some time with her. I wanted my own good bye. But I didn’t know if you could do that. I didn’t want to be high maintenance, but I knew I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t try. This was my last opportunity and I knew I had to take it. Halfway through lunch I got up and went into the sanctuary of our church. I can’t explain my nerves, I suppose I was afraid they would tell me no, but I walked up to my youth minister and asked, “Could I maybe have fifteen minutes alone with her?” He went into action without any hesitation and deployed some of the ushers at each of the doors. He cleared the room completely as I stood waiting at the back of the auditorium. “I have people at the doors, no one will bother you. Take all the time you need.” He gave me a hug and walked out the back door, leaving me alone. My stomach turned. I had spent all morning planning how I was going to ask and what I was going to say, but now that I had gotten the time I had wanted, I was unsure of what to do. I wanted to hold her, to touch her. But what would I say? What was good enough for this moment? The slide show ran over her and I stood there watching our childhood in picture form. And I started walking. I drug legs of lead up to the stage and placed my feet on each stair until I found myself standing over her, looking down on my sleeping sister. And for the first time, I wept. I had cried in short spurts a few times over the past few days, but I had not let myself go. Until then I had responsibilities and eyes always watching. But now I was alone. Just she and I and the sounds of my ragged breathing. I watching my tears create water stains on her blouse and I absently brushed them away. I watched her intently, as if something was going to change. She looked lovely. Too much make up for Bay’s taste, but lovely. I began to panic. I was taking too much time. What if I had been in her for hours? What if I had held up the funeral? I couldn’t ruin everything, everyone had worked too hard. But I looked at the clock and two minutes had passed. I had spent two minutes in that room and I had assumed it was hours. I looked back at her and decided to take a mental note of everything I desperately wanted to remember. I buried my fingers in her hair begging my mind to remember how cool and soft it felt. I held her hand, forming mine to hers hoping to remember the shape of her long fingers. I brushed her cheeks lightly committing the texture to my mind. The conversation she had will stay between the two of us. My monologue rather, but I like to believe she was right there listening. I spent minutes trying to catch my breath and tell her things I needed her to know. I would pause between bitter tears, clear my throat and begin again. But for the first time, I was not embarrassed by my sobbing. It was just she and I, and I could cry in front of her. She understood how much I was hurting. I stood beside her, my body draped over the side of her casket. I held her hand with one of mine and pet her hair with the other. I rested my head on the pillow beside her and allowed my make up less tears to slide down her satin pillow. I held her and cried. I cried for my mother. My precious mother who had carried her for nine months and given her to us. The mother that had given up the chance at a career to devote her life completely to raising us in the Lord. The woman that woke us up in the morning, brought us home in the afternoon, and tucked us in at night. My mother that nursed us when we were sick, helped us when we were confused, and taught us when we need to learn. The mother that had become our friend. I cried for my dad. My father that spends hours overworking to provide for us. That spends all week working but was then up at the crack of dawn on Saturday to play with us in the yard. The dad that would miss any golf, football, or baseball game if it meant spending time with us. The dad that taught us how a man should treat us, and how our relationship with God should look, and had become our most trusted confident. I cried for Drew. Sweet Drew that is so much like Bailey. I look at him every day and see a piece of her.  He had become so much more confident with her encouragement and I ached for his upcoming pain. I cried for Carter. Our funny Carter that I’d never seen cry. Carter that would tell you daily how much he loved you, even if it was brief. But also, I cried for myself. I cried that I was burying my best friend. I cried that fifteen years was over. I cried that my baby sister was no more. I cried that I would have to live without her. I cried that she wasn’t there to dry my tears. I glanced at the clock and picked myself up, without letting go of her hand. And a thought came into my head. When she was younger I would go out, and she would be at home when I left and asleep when I came in. But as she had gotten older I had begun to see her out when I was. I had expressed just weeks earlier how odd it was for me to see my little sister out at events. I would always go up and attempt to embarrass her and we would laugh and go our separate ways. But every time we would see each other out we would say, “Love you. See you at home.” I smiled and looked down upon my sister for the final time. I leaned down and kissed her forehead, and stood up to gaze at her once again. I squeezed her hand and whispered through tears, “Love you sister. See you at Home.”