07/07/2026
Thirty-seven years later, there are still days when grief catches me completely off guard.
Thirty-seven years ago today, my little sister, Teresa, died.
She was eleven. I was thirteen.
People sometimes ask if the grief ever goes away.
The best way I know how to answer is this:
Most days, it lives quietly beside me.
Then something unexpected brings it rushing back.
A few nights ago, I watched Voicemails for Isabelle on Netflix. I wasn’t expecting to cry the way I did.
It reminded me that after all these years, I don’t just miss the fact that Teresa is gone.
I miss Teresa.
The little girl who played house and school with me for hours.
Who lined up Barbies with elaborate storylines only we understood.
When she was granted a Make-A-Wish, she chose something that seems almost ordinary today: a video camera.
Back then, it was a really big deal.
She wanted a camera light enough for her to hold herself.
We thought we were television reporters. We’d interview each other, make up stories, and laugh until we couldn’t talk.
And then there were our performances.
We made up dances and lip-synced songs with complete confidence that we were amazing.
Our masterpiece was “Mickey.”
“Oh Mickey, you’re so fine…”
I’m smiling as I write this because I can still see us.
I only wish I could watch those videos one more time.
Thirty-seven years have passed.
The ache isn’t as sharp as it once was, but love has a way of refusing to disappear.
Today, I’m not only remembering the day Teresa died.
I’m remembering the little girl who made my childhood more joyful simply because she was in it.
What a gift it was that she was my little sister…
…and my very best friend.
