East Flatbush Writer

I lost my cousin to stomach cancer on March 29, 2022. She was 56 years old and more than a cousin, she was my sister.  Her name is Caroline as she remains alive in my thoughts everyday.

Our relationship spanned the gamit. We were four years apart in age and shared every stage of life.  We lived together,  laughed riotously, talked incessantly,  and at times stopped talking, but always found a way back to each other. It was our promise to never stop being in each other’s lives,  to be more than family. Always friends.

Adulthood challenges childhood relationships.  Any one caring to be honest would agree. We assume new roles,  make divergent choices and move in different directions,  geographically and emotionally. As we navigate life’s pathways,  we don’t always agree.   Conversations around choices can at times escalate and even become conflated with other issues within the relationship. Opinions shared might be ridiculed or unsupported, which results in one or both sharing less,  repressing more.  The relationship loses its depth and becomes tense.

Caroline and I weathered the worldwind of all of those dynamics. We both got married,  had children,  set up our respective homes and curated our own values within them. There were many times we viewed the approach to life very differently. Thankfully, disagreement was not the overarching theme of our relationship.  We loved each other dearly  and wanted the very best for each other. She and I championed the wins and cried together during the losses.  Our relationship endured to the end because as similar as we were,  there were stark differences.  I am an uptight,  rule-following, anxiety-laden control freak. She was a laid back, free-spirit, along for the ride,  see how things work out type of person.

It worked. We helped each other find balance in a world that demands structure and flexibility simultaneously.  when faced with challenging life situations,  I could always count on her to say something completely opposite from what I was thinking.  She would suggest a calm,  paced approach to finding a solution or at least, how to think about the problem.  Her response was grounded in the truth of her past experiences (remember she was older than me.)

No roadblock was immovable.  Even though she might not have the answer in that moment, it would always work out.  Her words would leave me feeling relieved,  inspired and hopeful. At the end of most of our conversations, during which I sought her advice (which were many) she would find a way to inject humor,  forcing me to reflect on my tendency to call the fire department only to put out a few embers. 

In the past two years since her departure, there have been many moments when I needed to hear what she had to say.  I yearn for her humorous take on my near nervous breakdowns.  At times, I  try to recall what she has said or infer what I think she would.

As with life there continues to be challenges, decisions that need to made, and difficult conversations that must be had. I long to hear what she would say about all of it,  but her voice becomes fainter and quieter with the passing of each year.