Wendi {at random}

Benjy said the most interesting thing today. Truth be told, he's full of enlightenment on a daily basis, but today's thing really went straight to my heart.

I mentioned to him that it was Aunt Shell's birthday, that she would have been 40 years old if she wasn't with God in heaven.

He said, "Well, we wouldn't have had a school day then, wight?" At first I giggled.

Because, of course the whole entire free world would have canceled school to celebrate Michelle's birthday.


I think he meant that we would have driven to Florida to be with her on her 40th birthday. We had an open invitation from her. I quickly told him we'd probably have called her. Then I wondered. Would this have been the year we threw caution to the wind and actually flew our butts to Orlando? It would have made for a beautiful break in the midst of a winter that still has three feet of snow on the ground here. I would have been able to see grass, green grass. And I would have been able to tell Shell all those things I wish I'd said when she was here. Before she was 40. Before she was gone.


I'd tell her how happy I am that she's in the center of this picture Curt snapped on the day Benjy was baptized. Isn't she beautiful? I wish I'd told her how beautiful she was. I mean, she was fashion savvy and all, but her real beauty was in her heart. That heart that beat for everybody around her. It saw the good in people when I would have thrown in the towel. She would tell me about her alcoholic friend in rehab and how she would visit her, and I'd be fuming because this lady had trampled all over my sister's feelings and goodwill. "Wee-en-di," she'd say in three syllables. "She needs a friend." I had a lot to learn from Michelle when I didn't even know it.


I'd tell Shell that I worried about her. She didn't look her best the last time I saw her. She looked tired. Off. This picture was taken 6 months before she passed away. She doesn't look her starriest, her sunniest. But I was just so happy to be with her and Mom and Dad. And I was stressed beyond imagination to be traveling with just me and the boys from Pennsylvania to Virginia and back. I wouldn't dare disrupt our weekend back then. I wish I'd asked her how she was really doing. (In truth, however, Shell was a secret keeper. And she was the one who would spare her loved ones any worry. She would never have told me if she'd had a hangnail, much less if anything more was weighing on her mind. If she'd even had a clue that she would die in six months, she'd never have told me.)

I wish I would have told her a hundred times how much I loved her and her husband together. That they were a meant-to-be couple. I think they knew that because I totally did love being with the two of them. But I remember early in her relationship when she was worried that the family would not approve of her marrying a black man. Long-story-short, even her southern white-as-flour grandmother fell in love with Brian. We all did. And not for anything as cosmetic as outer appearances. We loved Shell and Brian because they loved each other.

Yes, Michelle was special. I'm sure all sisters are. But she was mine. That made her uniquely special to me. I miss her.

I miss her southwest Virginia drawl that not even Florida could dilute.

I miss her chipper voice on the phone. "Hey, Wen," she'd say. "It's Shell. Call me." I still have her number saved on my cell. I can't delete it.

I even miss her extravagant shopping trips that used to leave my jaw hanging on the floor. Who pays $THAT for a sweater that looks like road-kill?! I actually said something or other like that to her once. You should know that I wasn't the one known for tact and sensitivity.

But most of all, I miss knowing that she is there. Somewhere on earth brightening her corner of the world. Welcoming the misfits. Loving the unloved. Keeping the economy going. I miss knowing I could pick up the phone and speed-dial her and almost assuredly hear her voice which would never sound depressed, sick, or too tired to talk to me. I miss my sister.
I love you, Shell.
I will dance and rejoice when I see you again.