You left me in stitches (2026)
You were the third sister for 33 years.
Our moms were best friends who grew up on the same sidewalk, shared one bike, and made art together into adulthood.
We would do art projects together. Yours were steeped in geometry and straight lines. You were fastidious, but you made it look relaxing. You'd correct us on how to do things. I'd ignore you and smile. Over time, you figured it wasn't meant to annoy you.
You'd set up art nights for Libby and Carrie and me and you. It'd look catered, with premeasured samples of watercolor concentrate in contact-case wells and oil pastels lined up like they were about to be executed. I smeared the paint to make a new color or texture. You’d draw a perfect butterfly from species. Next to it I’d draw an inorganic alien form with one human eye. You'd spill a zentangle out of its head.
You became a materials engineer. I became a teacher. You played Baroque viola. I played John Cage on violin. You annoyed the shit out of me sometimes with what you'd say to outright make me feel brain-small, and I annoyed the shit out of you sometimes with how I'd retaliate with small words.
Last December, you made a cookie-decorating bar for Libby and Carrie and me and you. You had precut and baked the sugar cookies into prescribed forms: snowman. Santa hat. Snowflake. Star. Libby applied edible pearls to the edges of a snowflake with the precision tweezers you brought. Carrie made a Santa hat into the hill from Nightmare before Christmas, mixing the colored frostings into an unappetizing purple-brown. We trained them well.
When you died, your mom curated your funeral like a museum, but much less Fragonard and more Betty Brinn. It made me cry even more to remember walking through every museum for the first time with you as a kid. I love you.
In the Melinda Susanne Tom Anderson Museum, there was a blanket you stitched with wool we had gotten together from an old farmer whose wife just died. He had mountains of wool around, her warm memory billowing clouds.
We split the last batch of wool shorn off the farmer’s wife’s favorite sheep. Dolly. You made a blanket for your mom from your half. The blanket I promised my mother was left unmade while life fell to pieces.
I don't think I ever told you once that I loved you. I think you would have recoiled; not from shock but from revulsion. You were the spikiest soft person I've ever endured. And by far the softest. I love you. Your warm memory billows clouds.
Your dad is just like you. (My dad is just like me.) He went up to the podium yesterday, said, "I am not a public person. I am broken." and left the podium destroyed. I couldn't keep the sounds in anymore when I was crying. I love you.
Back in March, I learned you were in the hospital while I was in the hospital. It took a few days, because they only gave us technology at certain times. We were both fighting for our lives. I hate it now that mine is fixable. I love you.
I started the Dolly blanket today. There is so much grief woven into it. It will be in our family forever, just like you.
I will keep fighting not because of you, but for you. I love you now. I loved you then. I will love you always.
May my tears evaporate and be your memory.
Please donate blood to fulfill Melinda’s final wish.
