Three months to the day, 23 September, my little sister died of cancer. In her will, she left me her car, which used to be Mom’s car, and now it’s back. We pulled into her driveway about two thirty and the car was there, keys in it, so we looked it over and left.

My sister was a smoker and she had an ashtray in the car full of butts, so I rode with the windows down until we reached Bainbridge, forty miles away, put some gas in the car and threw the ashtray away. I found two Taylor Swift CDs in the car, but everything else was twangy as hell.

I drive a stick shift so finding someone to ride with me then drive back in my truck required finding someone who likes me enough to spend two and a half hours in a truck with me then back alone. I have a writer friend I can count on and she drives a stick.

We talk about writing, her project, mine, writing in general, and my sister was an artist who never really committed to the idea she had talent, and she did.

In a prefect world, I would have spent the day driving around Early County, remembering the places my sister and I would drive around while drinking, and yeah, that was once socially acceptable. We would creep slowly down the red clay road and toss the bottles out of the windows and no one ever got pulled over for drinking and driving unless they were causing a problem. Fewer cars, fewer people, fewer paved roads, and fewer problems.

I never knew it until she died, but my sister was a unifying force in the family, a peace maker, and she was always the little one, the youngest, and that was part of an issue I never realized existed until she was older. We never treated her like a full formed adult sometimes.

She had been with the same boyfriend for eight years, and he died five years ago, but I don’t think she ever got past that. She never dated again. Never wanted to, and for the first time in her life, my sister lived alone. I never thought she would survive that, but she discovered comfort in isolation, which I grok. She told me she knew why I lived alone for so long, and she stopped being so afraid of the dark. She lived with cats and a large black lab type dog, and was handy with a shotgun.

This might be my last trip back to Early County ever. My best friend died in 2013, of cancer, my sister has died of cancer now, and to go back is to haunt my own life, even though I am still alive. I no longer have any old friends to visit there, no one from high school to pal around with, and honestly, I have always hated Blakely Georgia.

As I drove back, windows down, Taylor Swift on a CD, and feeling emotionally drained, I remember the last time I spoke with my sister, knowing it would likely be the last time. In the car was her music, her detritus of life, change in a small cup, a few ones tucked away, paid bills on the floor, unopened mail, and now, she is no more. Three months to the day.

Take Care,

Mike

The post Friday Firesmith – three months to the day first appeared on Bits & Pieces.

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