We will soon be going to California to face the man who violently murdered our little sister, Cathy. I’ve spent some time recently rereading some of the pieces I’ve written about Cathy.
This one will be recognizable to several of my siblings because we were all there together to make this happen. Anyone who knew Cathy, knew her moods were never half-way, good or bad!
Moving Cathy: A chaos of books, crates, Rubbermades, glasses stacked and glass shattering–pinpricks of blood from tiny wounds. Loading, stacking, laughing, unloading, muddy footprints on new silver-grey shag. Grumpy, undeserved snapping.
John Denver on the juke box at the A&W. Unpacking, sweating, re-arranging-a necessary intrusion on a private life. The cable guy, the new neighbor, laundry across the hall, quarters and a basket on a leash. Tempers, patience, pain in knees, shoulders and backs.
Four empty trucks driving away: one apartment empty, cleansed of the life it held; the other filled with that unorganized life, waiting for it to settle in.