This Star Won't Go Out

Will you hold my hand when I go?

I totally did that night, love. I don’t know if you remember very well, but we were all with you. Keri too (your other “sister”). Abe was asleep in the window seat. We painted your nails—really awesomely with stripes and dots. It was so late, and I was so tired, and I so didn’t want it to be over, but at the same time, was so ready for it to be over; for you to be comfortable again. So ready to be done with the disease. You were peaceful. You were quiet.


Love is watching someone die.

I don’t remember your last words, but I remember the feeling. The feeling of watching you sleeping, and that all I could do was sit there and hold your hand and think of how much I love you. And then the feeling of it not being you anymore on that hospital bed. You weren’t waiting around, you were off on your next great adventure. We were all there in that room, but you were long gone. Your body didn’t look like you anymore. Your soul, or spirit, or whatever we truly are was flying around or actually probably running around taking huge breaths, and laughing loud with joy. Off to bigger and better things. This is what you want for us too. You want us to get up and live, not stay lying on the bed holding your hand. It was raining hard on the way home and we listened to Dave Matthews. We’re coming up on the three-year anniversary of that day, not one of my favorite memories, except for the fact that I know you were liberated from disease that night. That you got to start fresh.

I miss you, dude. Like so very much. With each little part of me. I’ve been avoiding your absence. Not thinking about it. Not remembering fully like everyone else, not talking about you so much. Just trying not to remember that you’re over. But I’ve finally actually realized that you are so not over. You are so alive and present.


Just be happy, and if you can’t be happy, do things that make you happy. Or do nothing with the people that make you happy.

You are so wise. We’re all following you out one day, so my hope is that we can be more honest with one another. That we can love more simply and enjoy every little ordinary stupid hilarious thing more fully. That we find joy in silly online videos and nerdy songs and stupid jokes. I want us to take advantage of the awesome things that we have at our fingertips on this crazy beautiful planet. To send out more positive energy and to live in your example of love. That’s what I want for me, and our wonderful family, and for everyone.

I guess I should go, this is getting pretty long and you probably have more important things to do, like upload videos for your Astral-Tube channel or some alien rock show to party at. I didn’t tell you enough, thank you for being an awesome little sister for all those years, it was tons of fun. I’m so lucky to have had you around. Thank you for all that you’ve done for me, I happen to love you more than I can say. And like you said to me once, “Without you, oh geez, I would be in a family of psychos. Not that it’s not anyway, baha!” Thanks for keeping us sane and being a spark of joy in our lives.

Love you always, little sis,

Abby

AUGUST, 2013





My Poem for Esther

1. Star, when I first saw you I knew you were the right sister for me.

2. Your heart reminds me of you because you are so sweet and thoughtful to me. You were always there for me when I needed you the most and you never gave up on me.

3. Dear, if you are dead or alive, I will still love you no matter what.





Graham Kenneth Earl

SEPTEMBER, 2013





Esther’s Legacy


Her legacy is amazing, but her promise was even greater. Her heart was for love, and this world, and others. She would be answering an advice column, and creating life-changing blogs (alternately with super crazy, silly ones!), and volunteering with kids, and doing so much. Maybe putting on photography shows in a gallery, or writing children’s stories, or interning with John Green. Instead, she is gone. And we are left aching for the empty spaces, and undrawn pictures, and the unloved stray kitties that will never know her quiet hand.

Still. We have so much—and especially so much more than so many with our loss. And that is a gift. She was a gift. Somehow that has to be enough. That, and loving others for her.



Lori Earl

JANUARY, 2013