Tonight I will light a candle for you: my big sister, the one who taught me to read when I was just three years old, with whom I fought incessantly as we were growing up, and who became my best friend when finally we were older and wiser.

I can’t believe it’s been eight years . . . eight years since I sat next to your bed in hospice, when most of the time you didn’t even know I was there, or who I was. And eight years since the day you struggled to get out of that bed, saying, “I have to get up now, I have to go.” As I gently eased you back against the pillows and asked, “Where do you want to go?” you frowned and said, “I don’t know. But it’s time. It’s time to go.”

And you were right; somehow, you knew. The next day, as I was getting ready to visit you again, I received the call. It had indeed been time for you to go.

Wherever you are, know that there will be a candle burning for you for 24 hours, as there has been every year.

And that I miss you.

Just sayin’ . . .

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10/23/25