Paris is Always a Good Idea

by Jenn McKinlay

Instead, I tossed back my second mimosa, because mimosas, unlike family, were always reliable.

Mostly because Annabelle was relentless—like a honey badger, she didn’t give a shit—and kept calling and texting and calling and texting. I loved my sister like no other. Truly, she was my ride or die, but sometimes her tenacity positively wore me out.

Lovely, a goat with oppositional defiant disorder. I hoped it wasn’t an omen for my trip.

Adhering my courage to the sticking place, which at the moment felt more like a preschooler’s paste than the superstrength glue I used as an adult, I stepped forward into his line of sight.

I considered the amount of alcohol I’d had, and decided an enormous glass of water and two ibuprofen would not be out of order.

I hugged myself tight. I wanted quite desperately to be brave, to be a better, stronger version of myself, but without a decent change of clothes or fresh underwear, it was hard to feel like anything other than a sad bedraggled waif. I could feel the DJ of the pity party starting to ramp up the “Why Me?” tune in my soul. I shut that shit right down.

After Mom passed away, I got good at reading people and their emotions about grief. The people who were relieved when the topic went away were usually the ones who hadn’t lost anyone near and dear and didn’t know what to say to someone who had. They were uncomfortable when surrounded by someone else’s grief and tried to avoid it as if it might be contagious.

We understand that pieces of our hearts will always belong to those who are gone. For us, love and loss are forever entwined, making us love more cautiously but also more deeply,” he said.