Friday, February 14, 2014

Nancy, 1960-2007.

It's Valentine's Day today.

For me, it's one of the saddest days of the year.

It's not the saccharin bullshit of a phony holiday that gets me.
Or the passing of a group of hoods killed by Capone and Bugs Moran.

It's because today is my sister Nancy's birthday.

She would have been 54 today.

Instead she's dead.

She died almost seven years ago in a motorcycle accident.

Nancy was always kind of a fuck up by conventional standards. She didn't excel in school, got messed up with drugs and decided she wanted to make it as a musician.

So, she lived a hand-to-mouth existence. Never sure what she wanted to do. Though I tried to help her, as did to a lesser degree, my older brother.

In any event, she had a lot of friends. And had some love and some joy in her life.

Though she probably had more depression, sadness and pain.

In any event, she's dead now.

Dead on 12th Avenue, crushed by her brand-new Ducati.

There are plenty of people who say that the death of a loved one is "something you have to come to terms with." Something "you have to get over." Something "you have to put behind you."

These people are full of shit.

They're spouters of pyscho-babble who have never experienced anything in the form of anything other than a pixel.

In real life, you don't put the death of your sister behind you. You don't get over it. It doesn't sit in a bottom drawer with your old tax statements and your kids' fourth grade reportcards.

I don't let my sister's death paralyze or debilitate me.

But I don't let it go, either.

She's my sister.

Born on Valentine's Day.


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