MARCH 3, 1969-MARCH 21, 2022
Trina was born when I was eleven and my older sister, Resi, was twelve. At those ages, it was like we’d been given a real live doll, and we were fascinated by her, cherished her; spoiled her actually. She was a happy baby—oh, you can bet we never let her cry. And then she became a fun child with no inhibitions. She skipped at full speed through stores, cartwheeled up and down the aisles at the movies, and sang with gusto in public places. Resi and I were quiet teenagers and we saw in Trina everything that we didn’t have the audacity to be. We adored her.
Cute things I recall: She had a tiny turned-up nose and she longed for a big straight one so she could be like the rest of the family. And when she was about five she told me that if she had big soft boobs like mine, she’d let people play with them.
She was such entertaining company that when Resi and I got old enough to drive, we argued about who got to take her on errands. She brought happiness to the whole family. Through her childhood and early teen years she was involved with friends from every strata. She was smart, she was a joiner, and she shared her smile with everyone. We were pleased for her when she was elected cheerleader in junior high.
I can’t pinpoint when her joy fell away, or why. Resi got married and moved away. I moved to Cairo, and David and I started a life that would take us from one country to another for years. I was in The Hague when my mother, living in Houston, called and told me that Trina had moved to Dallas to live with some guy she thought she was in love with, and that he’d given her a black eye and split lip. Momma had driven to Dallas, packed Trina up, and moved her down to Houston.
Except for those few traumatic and wretched months in Dallas, Trina lived with our mother from then on. She wanted to marry and have kids, but that doesn’t happen for everybody, so she let that dream go, but didn’t ever replace it with another one.
There were times when she was content. Having graduated from college in Houston, she had a good job in finance. She had a boyfriend who treated her well, but he wasn’t the type who believed in going to work every day and so they never got married. She made some good friends along the way, people who were more patient and less judgmental toward her than I ever was—and I’m ashamed of that.
And then there came a tragic year in which our mother died. And her boyfriend died. And then her best friend got hit by a car and died. And Trina simply never recovered. She became a recluse, working from home long before the pandemic made recluses of us all. She also became bitter and accusatory, lashing out at others (me) because of her unhappiness.
I hadn’t seen her for three years when word came through a cousin that she had cancer. I wasn’t surprised. She smoked constantly, ate only Cheetos and potato chips, and hadn’t exercised since she was on the swim team in high school. Her lifestyle had been killing her for years and I was reluctant to be a witness to her slow suicide.
When I heard she was sick I got to her as quickly as I could, and though I’d been told that if she’d fight she could conquer it, one look at her in that bed told me she was defeated. She’d had enough. The most frustrating and tormenting part of all of this is that I loved that girl; she’d had so much potential, yet she didn’t have the big life I wanted her to have.
So when I think of her from now on, I will dwell on the giggling girl, not the dejected and disconsolate woman she came to be. On Saturday I kissed her forehead, told her I loved her, and said good-bye.
Rest in Peace Little Sister.
At this point she was still making an effort—make up, wearing actual clothes, hair cleaned and combed. I’ve got pictures of her when she was young and darling and carefree, but they’re too old to upload.
This was taken three years ago, the last time I saw her before she became sick. It was obvious at this point that she’d given up. No make up, hair a mess. She’d stopped wearing actual clothes, but spent her days in soft nightshirts. She went to the grocery store at seven a.m. on Saturday because that’s when it was least crowded and she didn’t want to deal with people. Other than that, she no longer left the house.
