Linda, in a couple more days, it will be 32 years that you have been gone.  I go through this struggle to varying degrees every year.  The last several weeks, especially, have been about remembering a few of your traits and characteristics, one-by-one.  I don’t miss them, or you, any less today.

In ways, I have gained strength for myself.  That helps take the “lost” out of the picture.  I’ll take any negative eliminated.  You would agree.

You were, to me, a protector.  I remember Aunt Mernie (your recipient of yellow roses) telling me that one day you were there with her, and someone suspicious knocked on the door.  She said you and your shotgun answered the door, and no trouble ensued.  It was so like you, it still makes me laugh.

Your teaching me about horses and riding are fond memories.  I truly think I valued time spent with you as much or more than anything horse-related.  Your sense of humor was often in play, which helped (and entertained) me a lot.

Then there was your visit to me while I was in the hospital.  You brought me a beautiful hand-picked fruit basket.  Your expertise in produce created perfection.  You probably never knew that you were perfection to me, as well.

I can’t believe that when I am sitting and thinking about you, it is still so easy to cry.  I just hope you knew, even in my typical shy silence, how very much you meant to me.  I think you knew a lot more about a lot, including me, than we ever discussed.  You didn’t let on, but your so often being there is my clue now.  Maybe you planned to discuss things later with me.  I guess we never think that “later” might not come.

Linda, you are one of the reasons I work to help others.  You, without hesitation or discussion, did so much for me, so much more than you would ever know, within what you knew you were doing.  I use our story, and it is “ours”, of sudden loss (through murder) to identify with others in similar circumstances, and give them a chance to heal, and not feel so alone.

One of my greatest lessons from our time together and the loss of you is to both ask questions, and tell others how much they mean to me.  You would laugh, because I can really get myself into some predicaments while trying to phrase things right.  It doesn’t stop me anymore.

One should not find out another’s birthday from a tombstone.  All people, their histories and details, are important.  When I learned how to ask questions without fear, much later in life, I made up for lost time.  I don’t blame myself for earlier hesitations, I just had to have some quick realizations about who (everyone) and what (details about them that are important to them) are important.  I’m getting it more and more right all the time now.  It takes practice, but practice is a pleasure, not a hardship.

So, Linda, thank you!  Even all these years later, I am making improvements based on what you taught me, directly and indirectly.  I miss you.  I love you.  How I wish I had said that face-to-face, but I know you wouldn’t blame me either.  I’ve learned better, and have become braver since.

Happy Birthday, Cousin!

Sue