My sister was killed in an auto accident late last year.  Seven years younger than her closest sibling, she was the baby. 

It's feels funny inside to say "was."  Isn't she still "the baby?"  There are no more after her.  And she was a baby, 17, when she died.

My family has changed.  Each of us in in grief, and we are grief, and that happened in one day.  There is no other us now.

Mom prays.  She puts prayers online too.  And she prays for silly things, like my naughty daughter to find her Easter dress.  She didn't pray before.

T* lives in Seattle and calls a lot.  And we text too.  Sometimes I just text our sister's name to her, and she texts it back, and we know that two people in this world are grieving right then.  It's not so lonely with someone else.

R* was in jail when "it" happened.  The corrections team let me talk to him, late that night, to tell him.  The judge wouldn't let him come to the funeral.  He grieves the loss of her, and the loss of the opportunity to grieve with us.  His wounds are deep, too painful to touch.

Planning her funeral changed me.  I must have done well because future funerals have been predelegated to me.  That feels good, if you can believe it.  

Mom thinks it's awful to talk about what form we want our memorial to take and, even worse, who will be next to be memorialized.

I'm glad for the discussions.  I'd like a little more guidance than I had the last time.