The morning she died, I was tired.

I woke up late that day. I didn’t have to go to the farm. I had Reggie, a small Yorkie I was dogsitting. I had a dentist appointment that afternoon. I’d finally gotten financially to a point where I could afford to go every six months.

I went to the small bathroom downstairs to brush my teeth, and I remember looking at myself in the mirror. I looked exhausted. I hated how I looked, I hated my face.

I was annoyed that I had so many missed calls from my youngest sister. She was so dramatic. And then another sister called, sobbing. “Margaret is gone,” she told me, her words struggling through the tears.

I didn’t understand. “Where did she go?” I asked, ready to jump in the car and go get her.

“No, gone,” she repeated. “She’s dead.”

And I’d never understood how knees could buckle. I didn’t understand before that moment the weight that shock could throw at you, heavy and thick.

I’d been to my grandmother’s funeral when I was younger, in college. Everyone was crying, and I didn’t. My father had shown sociopathic tendencies for years, and I wondered if I was more like him that I’d thought.

Turns out, the death of someone who was distant can matter very little. It’s the relationship, the connection that seems to give death meaning.

As I realized Margaret was dead, gone, I caught myself on the sink as I fell.

It was methodical after that. I called my boss to let her know I didn’t know when I would be back. I called the part-time job where I worked to let them I had a family emergency. I called the dentist, and I told the receptionist that I wouldn’t be able to come in. She told me she hoped everything was alright, and that was the first spike of anger that I needed to quell quickly.

She didn’t know. I didn’t tell her. 

A friend offered to take Reggie. I threw some things in a bag and headed to Pennsylvania, crying the entire way.

The hardest part was the guilt that I felt, the suspicion that I could have stopped it.

But I also thought I’d be able to work while I was there. I’d brought my computer. I’d catch up on emails. Maybe do some writing. I wasn’t prepared for what would come next. None of us were.

Emblem of Our House is an on-going series about the death of my sister Margaret in 2018, published every Monday here and on Instagram @EmblemofOurHouse.