Happy Belated Birthday, sort of

Today is Sandra's birthday and all I can do is think of her. I want to call her so badly, but she's dead. And, fuck if I don't feel like a bitch for so bluntly writing, "she's dead." But she is.

It's been 17 months and it still hurts.

Like I wrote before:

My silly aunt, the shit-disturber, the feisty one, the one I got together with to misbehave, make inappropriate jokes and share secrets - she wasn't supposed to die at 46.

But it happened.

Happy Birthday, Sandra. I miss you terribly.

We all do.