What the Dead Cannot Tell

I stood at my sister's grave on one beautiful morning in September of 2005. Her grave was almost unnoticeable, resting next to the graves of my mother and my father. My parents graves had been well kept, cemented in vaults with engraved headstones. Anyone could come by at anytime and read their names, birthday, and the day that they had left this world. But my sisters grave, stood almost invisible. A tiny name plate which had been provided by the funeral company, was the only thing that was recognizable, identifying her final resting place. This was another reminder, that she had left at a time when her children really needed her the most.

Her children were too young to provide an elaborate funeral, and head stone for their mother. They did the best that they could in the midst of an unexpected tragedy. They did all that they could do from love. Memories flashed through my mind how her children did not have money to purchase flowers for her grave. The three of them got together , went to a discount store and purchased plastic flowers and items to make a wreath. They used nail polish and glue to create beautiful flowers to place at her grave. We never would have known that the flowers were hand made until they told us. They were strong and proud children. Little pieces of my sister lives in each of them.

As I stood there at her grave, I realized if this had not been a cemetery, it would have been so easy to walk over her grave, and not even notice. Grass and weeds were growing from the dirt. Small pine trees were sprouting in the place where a vault could have been.

I looked at what was left of her final memories, and my mind went back over fifteen years ago to the journey which lead my sister to her grave. I remembered, the tears, the anguish and disappointment that she had to bear. I remembered how her children walked behind her coffin, tears in their eyes, because they had lost their mother too soon. They were expecting their mother to be there for them for many years to come. But, Death came to her door one day, and the plans for her life with her family came to an abrupt end.

I remember how my family watched loved ones leave this world one by one without ever seeing my sister return to her old self or ever become happy ever again.

Death came too soon. She was only 45 years old when she died. But, we had lost my sister years before she had ever rested in her grave. Regardless of how she died, or why she died, I promised her memory on that beautiful September day, that I would not let her be forgotten. I promised that I would not allow her suffering, and disappointment, or her story end at her grave. I promised that I would tell her story , hoping that it would prevent many others from walking down the same path, enduring the things that we, as a family, had to endure.

"You will not be forgotten". I promised as I stood looking at her grave. I was not talking to the dead. It was too late to talk to the dead, and say all that I should have said. If only, I had known then, what I know now. The regrets pounded on my heart. But, it was too late to settle things with the dead. I will never see my sister again. I will never be able to tell her the things that I have learned that would have prevented her children from losing her so soon. Things that would have kept her from losing her husband, her happiness, and all of those things that she had longed to have in order to make her life complete. It was too late for her. But, it is not too late for the living to hear her story, and for the living to hear the truth.

Her testimony will be told. Her journey will not be forgotten. The living will hear what the dead cannot tell.