The Music of a Year

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes. How do you measure, measure a year?

Twelve months. Fifty-two weeks. Three hundred sixty-five days. That’s how long it’s been since my sister took her last breath. When I placed my cell phone next to me that night, I knew it was going to ring before my alarm sounded the following morning.

Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world. She took the midnight train going anywhere.

It was 3:34 AM. I knew without looking who was calling and the tears started to fall before I said hello. I fervently wished I had changed my ring tone to something other than “Don’t Stop Believing” because I knew in that moment I had to stop believing that somehow a miracle would come through and my sister would live.

The Early Years: A.K.A. I'm Telling Mom!

To say I had a traumatic childhood would be a bit of a stretch. I was never abused, never witnessed a disturbing event, never disfigured in an accident--unless you count the barely visible scar on my right thumb from slamming it in my dad’s truck door. As childhoods go, I would say I got pretty lucky.

But I was the youngest of three sisters who, for a brief time which I barely remember, all shared the same bedroom. As anyone who has ever lived with more than one female can attest, the opportunity for disaster was rich.