I just returned from the funeral of Anita, who died this week. She had been sick for a long time and my relationship with her was strained. In fact, I had not seen her in many years.
She battled mental illness for most of her adult life and was 15 years older than me. But during the times when she was well, she was so much fun. She was a human storm of emotion, so passionate about anything and everything. She was definitely my mother’s daughter. Sometimes, all of that emotion could be overwhelming.
Anita was so beautiful when she was young. Thin as a rail, gorgeous eyes, curly hair. But I wasn’t around here all that much because she was so much older. The times I was with her, I had fun. She took me to Joyland. We went to drive-in movies. And when she was 27, she had a son, Curtis, who was the joy of her life.
Curtis used to spend the night with me and my parents quite often. I became very close to him. I don’t think there has ever been a cuter, more enjoyable kid. I so looked forward to him coming to our house and even though I was 12 years older, he seemed more like a brother to me than a nephew.
Well, Curtis is almost 40 now. And, until this week, I had pretty much lost touch with him, too. But I saw him at the funeral _ he has always been one of the most gentle, kind people. It amazes me that he came from the volcano of spirit that was my sister.
Curtis, fortunately, has a strong support system. His father and brother were also at the funeral. But I’m going to re-connect with him because I have missed him. I missed my sister, too. Out of her death something good will come.