The first time grief had a noise was when it escaped from my fifteen-year-old sister’s body, a sharp exhale of air quickly followed by a slamming door.

The BellSouth rental phone pierced our Saturday afternoon. I stood in a doorway and observed as my mother’s hand covered her mouth. Her head bobbing up and down as if the caller could see her.
With the receiver safely back in the cradle, she delivered the news. My sister’s summer church camp crush was gone. No longer part of the world where I was watching the tragedy unfold.

The slamming of the door made the glass rattle in the panes and echo throughout the small ranch house, not quite shattered but still not whole.

My sister bolted for the driveway and crumpled on the asphalt full of July heat. Arms wrapped around her legs as she folded herself tight. Origami full of folded grief. I stood at the storm door pressing my face against the sun-soaked glass with the rest of my body tightening. A response to her grief.

My seven-year-old self now understood sympathy and empathy. Two lessons and only had to pay the price with one tragedy. Sobs filled with unwritten letters holding declarations of first love escaped my sister. So many firsts for her in just one day. I went to her.

I stood awkwardly in front of her with no words. Comfort was not a class taught in our home. You must suck it up. You should move on. You can’t change the past. Tragedy is therapeutic, but only if you keep it to yourself.

I squatted down in front of her, hovering just outside of her hurt. Then I stretched my arms out breaking the barrier between us. She folded her head tighter to try and contain her emotions, but I kept stretching. My short arms circled her the best they could.

She stretched back.

Our bond was a circle for two. A closed shape with no one in the middle. Only those bumping against the outside.