Mary Lou Sanelli
They say death comes in threes. A crazy superstition, one of those fallacies that has no grounding in truth but you secretly believe it anyway.
Because I have been waiting for the third shoe to drop, waiting since I lost my nephew last year, and my dad a few months later. And when I say “drop,” I mean it fell from the sky with all the weight and intensity of a meteor landing.
This next paragraph comes from the saddest part of me, so I will choose my words carefully; make it short: My sister tripped, fell, hit her head on a glass coffee table, and that was it. The realization sinks in slowly.
It’s the beginning of spring, the most beautiful time of the year, so that’s all I’m going to say about my sister’s tumble. (That word just rushed in, I can’t help it. The reality of how quickly everything can tumble down roosts on every bone of my ribcage.)
I wish I had more faith that everything happens for a reason. I’ve felt the pull of it at times, like when lying on my back at Manitou Beach. It’s an all-over everything-is-right-with-the-world feeling, the exact opposite of tension. It faded as soon as a man arrived with a dog that chased—that he let chase—a heron. My faith (if that dog had been leashed) would be this beach at low tide when the mudflats exhale that strong, briny smell. It helps me to cope.
So here I am, coping. I take another walk, speak when spoken to, feign interest in the news. I tell the owner of an Elon Musk truck how ugly I think his vehicle is, not to mention how ugly a man is who fathers fourteen kids by different women, not one of them his wife. And this is suddenly okay because he is so rich? I said. And that’s all I remember about that wine tasting, at which I got drunk.
And that is why I buy a rotisserie chicken. And all that crispy skin, I stuff it into my mouth. I can hardly remember a version of myself that was allowed to eat the skin but I am nothing but a real pig these days. My phone rings, but I am too busy to answer it. Too busy remembering how my sister and I used to fight over the wishbone. She liked to dry them out, display them. I liked to pull them apart and make a wish right then and there. Pronto!
I'm very pronto about many things. So said my sister. So say my friends. And difinitely my husband.
Actually, I’m surprised that I can stomach chicken at all. I’d been led to believe that grief reduces the appetite. Not so. And once you realize the connection between food and trying to fill something other than hunger (I mean, how many chickens does it take to fill the human heart?), you can’t unrealize it. You can’t put the skin back on the chicken.
When I admit to my friend Murphey that I’ve also spent a bundle on new clothes since hearing the news, she says, “It happens.” Those two words ingrained not just my love of Murphey but my need for her at a time like this. And because I receive so much comfort from friends (not from chicken, not from new clothes) and even more from nature, I’m grateful that comfort is everywhere you look on this island. All you have to do is let it in. Like air.
We did have our squabbles, though, my sister and I. I remember one exchange went something like, “You aren’t making enough money,” she said. She was an accountant. She related everything to money.
“I make enough,” I say.
“You are fooling yourself,” she says.
“Am I?” This didn’t temp her to answer my question. She wasn’t born to discuss value in terms of passion. She charged by 15-minute increment. Plus, and I don’t want to say this unkindly, she was the oldest of three sisters and liked to boss us around. Boss our parents around. She liked to be the boss, had to be the boss, which made her even bossier.
“You are so immature,” she said.
“F*** off,” I said, and hung up.
That was one of our last conversations.
I live with this.
Oh god, I can’t end here . . . so I won't.
Recently, a reader of this column called me a polymath. I had to look it up. It sounded like a mix of things I don’t like: polyester and math? You can forget about math. Turns out, she thinks I am aware.
And that’s the word I think of now.
I am more aware since losing my sister. Aware that sometimes you tumble and fall and you do not bump your head, you do not die, and you have to be grateful for this.
You have to express gratefulness for this.
Mary Lou Sanelli's latest title is In So Many Words, nominated for a 2025 Washington State Book Award. She works as a writer, speaker, and master dance teacher. For more information visit www.marylousanelli.com.