Meredith’s Musings | The Waves Beneath

Article by MEREDITH MCKINNIE

This January marks three years without my little sister Bonnie. Over the Thanksgiving holiday, her name came up, as it often does. I commented that I was getting used to holidays without her, and that the normalization of her absence felt unjust somehow. I no longer anticipate her walking in the door or pre-fret about her tardiness delaying our dinner. Sometimes I don’t think about her at all. But when I do, it rushes into my consciousness like a tidal wave – the waves of grief.

A procedural wave descended on all of us when the monument company called in October to announce her headstone was ready – the headstone we ordered in June of 2023. Mom had asked me about the monument sporadically over the last year, so I was happy to relay the message. In the few visits to her burial site, the absence of a stone, instead featuring only a weathered picture on a stake, suggested a lack of care. She wasn’t forgotten; I didn’t want it to appear that she was.

Mom seemed surprised when I called, responding with a sudden “Oh.” I thought she would be relieved, as some people kept nagging us about the delay. When Mom and I talked the following day, she said she was surprised how final the arrival of the tombstone felt. Without a permanent marker, Bonnie existed in this liminal space between life and death. Though she was no longer with us, her chapter was not yet complete.

I keep thinking about the significance of 3 years. Though a relatively short span in a lifetime, 1/12 of Sister’s life to be exact, a lot can happen in those handful of years. I gave birth twice within 3 years. I obtained a terminal degree within 3 years. Bonnie’s missed so much, and it keeps weighing on me that she will miss everything else there is. My youngest daughter has experienced more life without Aunt Bonnie than she did with her. Will she even remember her?

I keep pondering how we keep people alive, how we keep them mentally present in their physical absence. And should we? Should intentional effort be spent in keeping the name and memory alive? I think most would say yes, but how many actively oblige that responsibility?

So often after her passing, people would come up and share memories of her with me. They’d tell me how much they loved her, share a funny story, or simply say how much they missed her. I loved when that happened. I hope my early tears didn’t discourage people from communicating those sentiments. Not to be dramatic, but I love crying. I feel it’s an emotional release that needs  escape. Crying feels cathartic in a way that little else does. I wish we didn’t feel so inclined to hide our tears or dry them on impact. The visible manifestation of emotion has a connective thread that we all desperately need right now, a sign of humanity.

I remember being in a movie theater with a friend once and hearing her sniffle. I leaned into the darkness to witness her tears. She rebuffed my attention, insisting I quit watching her. I’m not sure the source of the shame of sadness. Is it assumed weakness? What could be stronger than unloading your emotion on your face? It’s akin to opening your heart cavity and letting others peer inside. I can’t fathom a braver act of sharing with another soul.

I’m known for foaming at the mouth, for saying what pops into my head before thinking it through. Husband finds it refreshing, but your husband should say that, right? I do that with her name sometimes, surprising even myself. I utter, “Bonnie” and think, where did that come from?

Internal ocean waves move below the surface, between layers of water with varying temperatures or densities. The impact can be large though that they’re barely visible from the surface. Her naming, her memory is like that internal wave, an amalgamation of all she was, of all she still is, and all she’ll never be.