A skeleton up top, tree trunks and swollen feet below. Yellow eyes, scabbed skin, and a choke in a voice willing to make drastic changes as she fights off tragedy. Past mistakes and a miniature reason to live keeps her strong, but there’s no one to blame other than herself and no one else to fix it. The vice became a near-death addiction. She told me she would go days without a swallow of food, and claimed alcohol was absent at times. It’s hard to believe, but hard not to want to.
The closest thing to a sister who wasn’t of blood lies weak in a hospital bed as we joke about the catheter. Spirits are high, she can still smile at the very least. It helps me picture the jubilant times when she had a bounce in her step, a warm and fun heart and a passion for life.
She died.
