The anger surprises me sometimes. I remember reading about the stages of grief for Psych 101.
What a load of horseshit. You can't fit human experience into a cookie cutter, and why on earth would you ever be angry? That's simply stupid. Grief is sadness, plan and simple. You're sad someone is gone; why would you be angry with someone for something they couldn't control? And has no place in love, right?
Oh, to be 18 again, when the world is black and white, and you are so sure of yourself, of knowing how the world in numbered and ordered.
The urn is black and gold, the size of the pastel plastic Easter eggs she used to heap in baskets. One for me, one for my sister. Egg hunts were too competitive, you see. Everything had to be even. That was only fair.
This time, it's not fair. I have the urn, the egg, nestled in my hand. Just me. After all those years, things aren't fair. They're in my favor, and no one cares...but me.
It's not fair.
The cruel irony of that last afternoon comes back to me from time to time. Holding her hands and she drifted in and out. I was every woman in our family in turn. I didn't let got; I couldn't. Even when she called me by her older sister's name and started softly singing "Ring aroun' a rosie," so softly I had to lean my head down. So close, I could feel her breath against my ear.
The song comes back when I least expect it. And I look at that urn. And then the anger at being left floods through me.
And I fall down.