Kimmy (Art)

    Yesterday was the anniversary of my little sisters death.  I was 9 yrs old and she, almost 5.  What is unusual though,  through all the recovery and therapy that I have had I have never touched her sickness and

death; and I have been in alot of therapy.  Every year I mark her anniversary , but never allowed myself to feel my way there.  This year, for some unknown reason, is different. 
     I remember walking into the church for her funeral mass,  aware of everything but understanding nothing.  I mean what is death to any 9 year old?  For Gods sake, I didn't know what life was. The church was filled with a sorrow so deafening as to be seismic in force.  You could hear the angels wailing their despondent disapproval.   I was uneasy at being the focus of all that sadness, it seemed to rain down torrentially, drowning all things, flooding all senses with a perfect numbness.  Like a storm where you can only hear the downpour.  A storm with no relief.  I wanted to run; anywhere.  As we walked as a unit to the family pews, I saw that tiny coffin.  A symbolic outrage against the natural order of life.  This is not how things are supposed to be;  this unfathomable indignancy, outrageous unfairness.   Where is God found in such injustice?  The wasting disease that drew her to this moment.  Almost a year from diagnosis to death.  A year interspersed with false hope and cascading demoralization as the inevitable decimation of her little body went unabated; and finally her heart gave out.  My God,  how could a child understand such power arrayed against her?
     My parents never allowed us to see them cry over what happened. I know they cried, you could see the red of their eyes, and I could feel its cataclismic impact constantly.  They never thought that we may be in pain as well.  That we had lost someone we loved as well.  We had lost our only sister.  They were completely oblivious to the lives of their other children. 
     I could not come to any understanding of what I witnessed.  The pain in my family was so overwhelming and incomprehensible, like being continually beaten by an invisible object.  I had to find relief and safety somewhere.  I created an interior place of isolated solace where I could protect my heart from any future onslaught.  Smooth, comforting, unruffled, make believe.  A place where I ventured from only rarely.  Life was just too ugly and chaotic.  Stay here, it's safer; here I understand;  here I control; I can't be touched; I won't be hurt again.   My heart closed down, life extinguishing ; soul dying.  Can't feel, won't feel, why feel;  but I do feel.  I'll give up all good feelings in order not to feel so bad.
     The fallout of unresolved grief began immediately.  My parents, consumed by sorrow, shame and guilt, and no faith to transform it, began an unrelenting attack upon the surviviors.  Someone must pay,  blame needs to fixed; the weaker targets  ripe for such accountability.  Why her and not you?  How could I be at fault?  What had I done to cause this?  And yet I felt resposible in some way.  Maybe because she died instead of me.   Alcohol deadened the pain but ignited the rage.  Parents, no longer responsible functionaries, immerse themselves in drunken withdrawl, endless self berration and wallowing pity.   We 3 boys, now on our own, can no longer count on them for our human needs.  Don't trust, don't feel, and for Gods sake, don't need.  Affection elludes, love evaporates;  touch, non existent as we all die together.