I have been waiting to do this entry since Christmas. Anxiously. For some reason, I thought that I had to wait for the right time. And here it is, and now I don't even know how to begin. I'm nervous. I'm just typing words hoping that I'll find my way to say what I need to say.

Back to Christmas, I suppose. The last three Christmases have been extremely difficult for my family. Christmas used to be the best time of the year. It was the time when we got together to talk, laugh, eat, sing, and play music. When we were kids, it was a time of a little bit of torture. One of my cousins' husbands, the one who was actually cheating on her (why should she have been surprised...that's how she met him), who died in a firey car accident just outside of Vegas a few years ago, was instrumental in getting us kids (under 10 years old) to put on Christmas skits for the family. The torture was not only the actual performances, but also that we had to perform and then wait until midnight before we could open our presents. But it was all in good fun, I suppose, and we have some good memories and some awful photographs to prove it.

But as we got older, and none of us kids had any kids, the fun of Christmas disappeared. We got together. We ate and laughed, but the singing stopped. My uncle, who played the guitar, and my sister, who played the piano (much better than I ever did), were the ones who used to initiate it. Everyone got older, though, and the singing eventually stopped. We still got together to eat, talk, and laugh.

Three Christmases ago was the last "normal" Christmas. We got together and we ate. We didn't talk much, but there was a lot of non-verbal communication. Eyes darted around, looks were exchanged, and it was all because my sister was so ill. She had cancer, and the tumours had spread to her spine leaving her paralyzed from the waist down. Everyone knew that she was sick. She had been sick for five years. But no one knew or wanted to acknowledge the extent of her illness or the inevitable outcome until we got together for Christmas of 2002. She couldn't walk. She was clearly in pain. And she didn't look like herself. Everyone went home early.

She died three years ago on February 6, 2003. It was 4:30 a.m. in the morning, and we were all there. Her husband, who had stayed up all night, had just sat down to close his eyes for a couple of minutes. My mother and I were holding her hands. It was both terrible and wonderful at the same time. I knew that her suffering was over.

This past Christmas, when people were talking about holiday plans and asking about family traditions, I realized that I never talk about my sister. I avoid the subject of her altogether. And in doing so, I realized that by not talking about her death, I am also not talking about her life. And that is not fair. She deserves to be talked about. She was a good person who brought a lot of joy to other people. She gave me joy, and happiness, and sadness, and friendship. And I miss her.

Roxanne Darlene Klettke Fuchs
June 3, 1968 - February 6, 2003
























Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.

Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

“Remember”

Christina Rosetti