two sisters spoke

At the service honoring the life of Christopher Yasick, two sisters spoke—one in the pages of the memorial program, the other out loud, to the many in that church. We were leaning forward. We were watching the colored light flicker on the cathedral stones. We were watching the big flapping wings of the bird that flew close, then flew close again. We were watching each other. We were holding our breath.

Two sisters spoke.

It should not be the responsibility of family to appease the hearts of friends, but this is what the Yasicks do. They say, Celebrate the life that was. They say, to those who have passed on, We loved you, you amazed us, you were kind to us, you were ridiculous, you were mysterious, you did good. They bring a marching band to a cathedral courtyard and ask the kids to blare away at their horns and bang away at their drums so that the young man who was lost too soon (he was a brother, he was a son, he was so much to so many, he was full of the possible) will again be buffeted by his alma mater song. They lift their longhorn hands to the sky. They lead us, in the loud stillness, on.

Two sisters spoke.

I often wonder what it is about language that works. I often think of how the simplest words are the loveliest words, about how much meaning rhythm carries, about how truth is the thing we crave the most. At a brother's service, two sisters spoke, and we leaned in, and we were carried forward, and it was brave, and it was beautiful, and it was sad, and it was everything, and it hurt so much, and it was right, perfectly right, eternally lasting.

How we wished that the two sisters' beauty was the final power, that we could reach out to them, as they had reached out to us, with words that somehow worked.