It's Been A While
There are certain memories that do not get smaller with time.
They get quieter.
Softer.
Less constant.
But somehow heavier.
Like life slowly wraps years around them without ever changing what they meant.
Music has always carried memories for me.
My family was built around music.
Songs playing through the house.
Road trips.
Concerts.
Stories.
My dad always seemed to know everything about music.
Who sang it.
What year it came out.
Who wrote it.
What album it came from.
Music was never background noise in our family.
It became part of us.
Part of our memories.
Part of our relationships.
And there is one song that will probably always belong to my sister.
"It's Been A While."
For years, every single time that song came on the radio, my phone would ring.
Every time.
Without fail.
No matter where she was.
No matter where I was.
My phone would light up.
And before I could even say hello she would ask:
"What is your favorite song?"
The thing is...
She already knew the answer.
She always knew the answer.
That wasn't really why she called.
The call was the point.
That was my sister.
She is probably the most sarcastic asshole I have ever met.
And I mean that with all the love in the world.
We are completely different people.
Always have been.
Different personalities.
Different perspectives.
Different ways of handling life.
Different ways of expressing emotions.
Different ways of seeing the world.
But somehow none of that ever mattered.
She never made me feel like I needed to become somebody else.
She never made me feel like being different was something that needed fixed.
She accepted me exactly as I was.
Looking back now, I don't think I realized how rare that was.
Because when something feels permanent, you stop noticing it.
You assume it will always be there.
The phone calls.
The traditions.
The inside jokes.
The people.
Then life happens.
Stress happens.
Loss happens.
Families change.
People change.
Circumstances change.
And sometimes the hardest grief is not grieving someone who died.
Sometimes it is grieving a relationship that changed while both people are still here.
I think people underestimate that kind of grief.
Because there is no funeral for it.
No service.
No goodbye.
Just distance.
Silence.
Memories.
And questions that never seem to find answers.
Sometimes I hear that song now.
And for a split second I still expect my phone to ring.
For a split second I still expect:
"What is your favorite song?"
Like no time has passed at all.
Like we're still those versions of ourselves.
Like life hasn't happened yet.
Memory does strange things.
Music does too.
One song.
One sound.
And suddenly years disappear.
Time folds in on itself.
The phone rings again.
My sister laughs again.
The conversation happens again.
Even if only for a moment.
I think what I miss most is not the song.
And maybe not even the phone calls.
I miss the version of us that existed inside those moments.
The version that felt unbreakable.
The version that felt permanent.
The version that never imagined there would come a day when I would hear that song and sit in silence instead.
Because love remembers.
Love remembers voices.
Love remembers routines.
Love remembers connection.
And sometimes silence only feels loud because once upon a time something beautiful lived there.
Butterfly effect again.
I thought I was grieving a song. Eventually I realized I was grieving a version of us.