Yoke

Fourteen years ago, today, my Dad died. It was so long ago that sometimes I don’t fully remember what it is like to be a daughter with a Dad. And really, I have no idea what it is like to be 48 and have one, so it is all the same, I guess. Eight years ago, today, my brother, who had spent the previous 24 hours in a coma, coded, died, and returned. He never woke up; but his return allowed him to die a few days later, for real, in an operating room, in the planned, orchestrated way that all organ donors die.  I don’t really remember what it was like to be a sister, either.  I can write these things without crying or getting angry. I can write them and then make a funny joke (I did always wish to be an only child! I often fantasized I was adopted!) and move on to whatever the day brings.  I feel like I should conjure up some really strong sobs or sit my kids down and do something in honor of the family they lost and barely knew. But, I don’t have the energy for anything like...