My kid sister never cared for this place. Last night, she left it.
Authorities say the autopsy won’t arrive until Tuesday, but the cause of death doesn’t really matter. A lifelong smoker who struggled with C.O.P.D., addiction and cutting, Caroline was codependent on sorrow. She often resided in melancholy memories polished in rose-colored wire rims.
But god could she love.
Especially the small, young things. She was a foster mom for the state of Georgia for more than a decade and a volunteer at the animal shelter in Charleston, South Carolina, where she lived with my mom.
Caroline was in the process of adopting one of those foster kids when my father died in 2014 — and my sister lost whatever momentum that was left.
Still, she taught French at an elementary school right up until her death at 55. I hope the kids know they gave her a reason for so many sunrises.
As big a dog lover as I, Caroline once nearly crashed us to pull to the side of a Georgia highway to pick up an abandoned 140-pound Rottweiler we passed. It took $500 and mom’s screen porch, but she saved Mitchell (so named for the highway that dumped him).
If it wasn’t with something furred, the only way to get Caroline’s attention was with a Tom Waits song. She loved his boozy, broken hearted serenades, all loud and proud and growly on stage. Half my gifts to her must have been his music or face plastered on mugs and t-shirts.
On the night she died, Caroline sent a text:
“New fave Tom Waits lyric, dedicated to you:“I’ma love you ‘til the wheels come off””
Wheels are off, sis. I’ll see you there.
