The Last Word

I can't remember what day it was, but it's been rather recent since I received the email stating that your memorial page was about to expire. In fact, I think I've received more than one email. Today was the day. I texted Mom yesterday, just in case she didn't know (although I was certain she did). She said it was time to let it go. I'd had the same thought, but part of me wished she wanted to keep it going even though I know that it really is time to let it go. It's time to let you go. I know that this doesn't mean the reminders will stop. There will always be snapdragons, music and Tabasco sauce. I know I will always be the big sister to three brothers and a sister. I know there will always be five of us, even though one is gone. You will always be my baby brother, and my daughter will always be your niece. It doesn't matter that you never got to hold her. She is still your niece and you will always be Uncle George. Letting you go isn't as painful as it is scary. It's so scary. I haven't looked to see what exact time the sight expired but that's not what it's about, anyway. It's about the fact that the last words entered are exactly that: the last words. Part of me wonders if I should give up this blog since I hardly ever write in it these days. No. I don't think I could do that. Not yet. Even if it's only once in a blue moon, I want the option to write to you, or about you will be there. I do not wish to be the one to enter the last words. You deserve more time than that.