Sitting here 3 weeks after my 20-year-old cousin, Seth, was killed in a car accident I still don't have sentences eloquent enough, deserving enough, to be written. I want to write about the joy he brought to life. I want to write down every cousin memory we share. I want to write about Seth and his big brother. I want to write about our Grandma. But the thought of all of it still breaks my heart.
The loss of Seth is tremendous. The only thing tempering this is the thought of Seth and his Dad, my Uncle Vince, healthy, happy and together.
When someone dies, perhaps more than anything you're searching to hear them again. It's why we love our great-grandma's recipes and hand-stitched quilts. We want to hear our loved ones speak, even if it's only through the things they loved. Not their actual voices, I guess, more like echos of the lives they once lived. But still something to cling to. Something to ease the sting of absence.
Late at night when I'm driving to the store, with the music on high, I've heard whispers of my beloved cousin. My eyes instantly well-up and spill-out tears, because at this point it still seems incomprehensible that he is gone. Maybe it is one of those things that will never make sense? I said it at his memorial services and I'll say it again here, but I'll forever be waiting for him to come bouncing around the corner and into Grandma's kitchen.
It's weird how your life suddenly stops when something like this happens and just as weird when you are expected to carry on like normal so soon after. As the oldest girl of the Albrecht cousins I've always felt protective of the younger ones. Especially Seth. I feel like our souls were fabricated with a similar type of happiness-craving material. In time I hope to write more about it, but for now I'm still sorting it all out.