Tags
Balbina Naranjo Sykes, Balby, Bobbi Sykes, bobbisykes, cancer, death, dying, eulogy, Faith, family, hope, love, poem, Poetry, RIP, sisters
“Is there blue sky today?” she’d ask every morning, some afternoons.
My answer, as I flipped open the blinds, would be “yes” or “no” or “a little bit.”
She’d squint to get a better look at the strips of cloudy grey or of golden white or of brilliant blue.
Blue skies are the color of hope.
She’d shop at Macy’s for dozens of outfits, tags left hanging until their debut.
There they were when she died, in the closet and in folded piles, still waiting to be worn.
Most of them never felt her skin nor carried a whiff of her Dolce & Gabbana LIGHT BLUE.
New clothes are neatly threaded with the faith that a starving body will heal.
When the spasms of nausea or the spikes of pain proved ruthless,
she asked for music. The Eagles. Nat King Cole. Javier Solis. Andy Williams. Carole King.
All night, “Moon River” or “Unforgettable” or “Desperado” or “It’s Too Late” played her to sleep.
Songs carry memories of days of joy and dancing.
When she couldn’t stand solid food anymore, she longed for juice or soup,
salty and sweet extremes for her unbalanced blood and dry mouth:
watermelon juice, papaya and coconut milk smoothie, vegetable broth.
Juice reminded her of Papi, soup of Mami, of being young.
The sister of mine who loved to walk, bike and travel, who loved mountains,
lived her last years in a first floor room, her only travels to her doctors,
her only elevation the rising mechanism of the Casper bed surrounded by photographs.
Photos let her travel again, a dose of freedom fed into her eyes.
The sister who loved Christmas spent her last one in hospital,
hours alone, relying on phone calls and texts and nurses,
staring at Samsung images of her and Skipper posing by her cheerful tree.
Trees bear the ornaments and magic of happier times.
Her final surgery brought surprises–paralysis and her smile reborn.
The sweetness didn’t last. Cancer is brutal. It doesn’t care about love or hope or wishes.
It conquers organs and offers nothing but frailty and pain.
But even with her body cut and tubed and flaccid, she said,
“Thank you for taking care of me.” She said, “I love you.”
And I said, “Thank you for being my big sis. I love you, too.”
Love is ultimately what matters most at such times, even more than hope, more than faith.
She died on a day when the sky was brilliantly azure.
She went to be with her darling and my dearest, with Mami
and Papi, with Tia and Kiko, to that place where the sky is always blue.
Mir Writes 