eulogy for my sister
spare a little candle, save some light for me
Life is not something you can easily make sense of. Even if you could see the view from the highest peak, the mystery of life wouldn’t fully reveal itself. Part of me isn’t surprised to be here today, speaking about my sister who had challenges with her mental and physical health all her life and inevitably died young, and part of me is still in shock, as I know many of you are as well. We all loved Christy, and we’re grateful to you for being here. We appreciate the parts you’ve played in her life. These next stories offer a glimpse of her; my brother and I collaborated in remembering.
Our beautiful sister, Christy, was a complex person with a complex history. I, Sunni, was five years younger than her so in the early years, I was more of a nuisance than a point of interest. As I got older, I hoped we’d get closer, but I remember her as always being hard to reach. She seemed to be somehow here and gone at the same time. Christy was shy in most social circles, and she held back in photographs. We all knew she could be boisterous and outright goofy when she was with people she felt safe around, but mostly she kept to herself. She was quiet, observant of strangers and, my favorite quality: She couldn’t stand judgmental people. I remember many an eyeroll on Sundays when we went to church. Christy saw most people as hypocrites, kind of full of shit, you know? and therefore she truly cherished the ones with loving hearts. Christy herself was a genuinely compassionate human being. She protected vulnerable animals and children, she collected friends who would have otherwise been overlooked, and she helped people who needed help. I think she could relate to being on the edges rather than in the center of the circle.
Even though Christy could be aloof, I knew there was a whole world being lived behind her eyes. She had a private space in her mind where she felt safe, like she could be herself, free from the opinions and needs of others. In that world, Christy could be anyone. She could dream, imagine, ease the pain in her heart, mind, and body, and live in the softness of her soul. She kept journals and wrote in them regularly, and I remember only one time when I was in her room kind of illegally and I stole a peek at a page in her diary. It was so clearly private—I think the cover even said P-R-I-V-A-T-E in capital letters—so I read just one memorable line and slammed it shut, feeling guilty and scared of being caught. One did not want to piss off “Christy Green.”
This last Tuesday, Rocky and I made space for a blessing in the room where Christy died. He found a candle in the house, and I asked him to sit where she sat when she drew her last breath. We started by playing the song These Dreams by Heart—she loved that song—and then I read a card I sent to her in October—one of those cards you write when you’re not consumed by your own pain and you can say how much you really love someone. After I finished, with Rocky still there, I could feel her presence so clearly that I started talking to her in-between tears, stumbling upon a specific, very vivid, memory. Afterward, Rocky told me he almost laughed out loud when I shared it because apparently, he has the same memory on a different day, in a different house, with a different song, but with the same Christy.
We were both kid siblings to her, you see. I mentioned that I’m five years younger and Rocky’s four years younger. As you can imagine, we were mischievous as children (in many ways, we still are) and apparently both of us had the same pesky-kid habit of spying on Christy. We both used to sneak quietly to her bedroom door, which would be closed on purpose, and we’d look through the keyhole under the doorknob and watch her dance to music she loved. George Strait. Heart. Randy Travis. Cher. Joan Jett. Christy really knew how to dance—full on dance choreography, raw emotion, and energy—and behind closed doors, she didn’t hold back. These were among the only times she seemed unburdened. She was lighthearted and free. Sometimes she did catch us—my footsteps weren’t all that discrete and Rocky’s eyeball in the keyhole was pretty obvious—but sometimes she didn’t, so we both got the chance to see our sister alive and singing, whipping her thick, dark hair around and dancing like nobody was watching, like she didn’t have a care in the world. It seemed that in these moments, Christy was finally allowed to be herself, to be her own person, in a healthy body that could move, a body that only belonged to her.
During these last few heartbreaking days, that’s how she keeps appearing to me. She keeps showing up, dancing. Spinning and twirling, her arms open wide, her head thrown back to the sky. She keeps beckoning me to join her, inviting me to dance even though I’m crying. So I do. I move like nobody’s watching and I dance with her. I just did a mean rendition of Joan Jett’s Bad Reputation in our living room. In all my life, until this week, I’ve never seen Christy so happy. She is finally, totally free. She is healthy. She is safe. She is home. And we will always cherish her, in any form.
To her beloved daughter Cassie, I hope you remember wrapping one of your hands in your mother’s hair as you slept. You slept that way for years and it helped both of you sleep more soundly. I can’t tell you how broken our hearts are that we’ve lost her, but I don’t believe she’s gone. I just saw her dancing and you will find her, too. During these painful days, if you feel lost or full of sadness, try and remember how you held onto each other as you curled your hands into her thick, dark hair. All of a sudden, she’ll be right there, loving you as fiercely as the day you were born.
To close, I wanted to share a line from a text Christy sent me on Thursday, January 4, just seven days ago.
I’m going to live my life and forever be me.
Yes, dear sister, forever be you! Strong, incredible, courageous, quiet, compassionate, dancing you.
No one can stop you now.
My heart goes out to you, Sunni. Thank you for bringing Christy to life for us. It can't have been easy. Om Shanti!
Sun - it’s Adam Butler. I am so sorry to learn of this knowing the pain that must course through you. I wish you peace and love.