my dead sister is making me fat

Grief writes itself on your body. I’m being literal as all get out because I’m not an accidental subtext kind of girl; my dead sister is making me fat. There it is, between my boobs and my pelvis, a sag, a swag of sag. Grief put it there. It lobbed on a year or so ago and I called it my Fat Passenger (Dexter fans would know where that come from). I first noticed it on a bike ride. What the?! Now I notice it walking, in the shower, at work. A couple of Sundays ago a work buddy bumped into my Fat Passenger. Now she knows about it too.

Why am I talking about my stomach?

I have no idea why I would write on the Internet about something I feel so ashamed of that my bedroom is my safest place.

I am obsessing about Libby’s anniversary. I don’t know what to do with myself. Let the black dog take me on a walk into the woods. I’m used to it. I’ve done it before. Let’s push the metaphor out further and say I know the bloody way and I don’t lead any bloody light to guide me.

The black dog loves a Fat Passenger.

Grief is cyclical. Days are good, days are shit, days of joy, days where not one thing happens. The absolute minimum: get kids up, cook, clean, work, put kids to bed. No sentences, that’s for sure. I thought of the best sentence the other night on my way to sleep, I should have written it down. File it lost with all the other best sentences.

I haven’t touched my bike for six weeks, and prior to that it was six weeks. I almost did yesterday. Washed her, dried her, lubed her, stepped back and considered taking a photo, didn’t, wheeled her back into the garage. Maybe tomorrow is the first and last thing out of my mouth lately.

In eleven days in will be June. I hate June. I hate June the tenth. June is the perfect time to become depressed, the first month of winter, white skies, jeans that won’t fit, I can slot in some Seasonal Affective Disorder and take my black dog to town.

That’s right. Don’t ride your bike, interact, take a walk, up your dose. Sit in the dark and wait. Fuck.

Freaking anniversaries. Why the Hell am I so stuck on the day she died, when her being here, her birthday, surely, is the much better day? September the sixteen, so much nicer to say, alliteration, all those S sounds, the day she came into my life. Not that I remember it, I was only one year old. Libby was always nearly head shorter than me. Came up to my chin when we little and stayed that way into adulthood. I could kiss her on the forehead so easily, it was there. Always there, lip height. September the sixteenth. Concentrate. Be thankful.

But June.

Image

 

libby was one in a million, too.

3 thoughts on “my dead sister is making me fat

  1. Hi Nicki, I’m sorry to hear about the ‘passenger’. I’m sure things will improve, though that’s easier said than done. Did you get key message about catching up on Friday, 30 May, 2pm, at Kerrimuir? A coffee and a chat about writing or whatever. Take care. Earl

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