Today I learned how to tweet, and did so copiously. You’d be proud. I also helped pull off a pretty phenomenal conference. It’s the end of the day now and I’m exhausted, and I remarked to a colleague that I didn’t know whether to sleep or celebrate. He said I should go out, because I could sleep when I’m dead.
I don’t think you sleep. I don’t picture you as restful at all, but still angry and turbulent. Tomorrow marks 6 months since you have been gone. Before you died you were restless; you wanted a new path, a renewedly meaningful path, a direction. You wanted it to coalesce before you hit 30, and you were angry when I suggested that it might be less pressing once you actually hit 30. You were agitated then, but I think you would be furious to be dead. You would not have wanted to miss so much — the rest of the campaign, the re-election victory, your next move to wherever. I have never had the satisfaction of picturing you as a soul at peace. Six months gone, earthly body buried, my own rage and the rage of your other survivors give presence to the rage I’m sure you would feel at the injustice of your death.
Yes, there are other times when I can see you would be amused or happy or wryly analytical, but it is usually followed by anger, my own and that which I’m sure you feel. I wish you had hit that age where saving the world immediately seems less pressing, more of a long-term path intermingled with the ability to handle disappointments, set-backs, and a general quest for happiness, but you did not. You died in full glory of energy and quest and vigor and rage, magnificently loud and driven and tall. In this state I am sure you do not sleep.
I am so sorry this happened to you, and this time there is nothing I can do to fix it; I can’t even be there just to listen. All I can do is be angry for you.
Your big sister