9.8.09

 

 

I didn't expect silence. We had always talked so much. She was my best friend as well as my sister: a little less than three years younger than me, the child I needed to protect when I was still a child (and my parents scarcely grown-ups themselves); yet I could not protect her now. When we knew that she was going to die, because the cancer had spread to her lungs and her liver, we spoke about how we would always talk to each other, even after her death. Neither of us had grown up believing in a conventional Christian afterlife (and anyway, I had given up on that unkind God after his failure to answer my prayers to save her); but, even so, it seemed impossible that we would ever be separated by silence, that our voices were contained only in our flesh and blood.
Yet in the weeks after her death, I heard nothing. At night there were just my own muffled screams in the pillow when I went to bed; or the memory that I tried to block out but which filled my head of her agonized breath on her last night, as she gasped for all that remained of life. And I could say nothing to her except, ‘I love you, I love you, I love you.’ ‘I love you too,’ she whispered, before she slipped away to a place where I could not follow.

Justine Picardie
in If the Spirit Moves You
© Justine Picardie, 2001

 

 

 

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Inconformada com a morte da irmã, esta jornalista britânica passou um ano a investigar aqueles que dizem comunicar com ‘o outro lado’. É o diário de um luto, transformado em inquérito sobre a vida depois da morte na era do cepticismo. Um livro honesto e comovente. 

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