My sister, Renie, passed away a few years ago from a brain tumor. I don’t really keep track of the days she’s been gone because, to me, it always feels like it happened just yesterday, no matter how much time has passed.
During her illness, she stayed with me part of the time. One of her favorite parts of traveling back and forth to Winship Cancer Center in Atlanta, for chemo and radiation was Chicken Salad Chic. She loved the Fancy Nancy with grapes, apples, pecans, and shredded chicken. On our way home, we would stop in Gainesville, Georgia. It was something she looked forward to and waited for through processes she had to endure.
I worked hard to duplicate the delicious bites she enjoyed because I knew eventually we wouldn’t be traveling back and forth and I wanted her to have what she enjoyed. It gave us something to laugh about because each experimental recipe I made would result in a thumbs up or down from her.
Her language skills were impacted by her tumor, causing her an inability to clearly speak her thoughts or desires, but she always found ways to let me know exactly what she wanted to say. She couldn’t write words because the letters would get crossed up in her head.
My husband Rolando left up our Christmas lights long after December because Renie enjoyed looking at them during the long nights of pain and insomnia.
One morning in early February as I gave her medicine, she handed me a red heart she had attempted to cut from construction paper with a simple smiley face. I remember the way she looked at me and how she grabbed my hand. I knew what she meant without her having to say words and even now as I type these words my heart feels her love.
Growing up, we loved to cut out hearts, long streams of paper dolls, and snowflakes. Our grandmother, Mama Dolly, taught us how to make them and it was a memory we shared, a connection to a time when life was simple and painless. We often sent each other letters as we grew older, always including some paper cut-out. It was our symbol of sisterhood. It was our way of remembering.
Memories are ways we mark our lives. Some invoke sadness, some joy, but all of them recognize where we’ve been and who we journeyed with. Life is a collection of moments—some fleeting, some lasting a lifetime. These memories, whether joyful or sorrowful, shape who we are and how we view the world, threads that weave together the fabric of our existence, each adding a new layer of depth, meaning, and connection.
I’ve learned that memories are not just reminders of what was lost, but also of what was gained. They are the proof that life has meaning, that love endures, and that even in moments of darkness, there is light.
Hearts will forever remind me of that day my sister probably spent the entire night cutting heart after heart until she was able to get one right. And while Valentine’s Day is the one day that offers a special moment to intentionally express love to the people who have touched our lives, it shouldn’t be the only day.
As time ticks away, our chance to heal past wounds, offer forgiveness, and make amends is lessened because we do not know when that window of opportunity will close. The same for our ability to show appreciation and reaffirm our commitment to those we care about.
As you gather flowers or chocolates to fulfill obligations of Valentine’s Day, stop and reflect on what gifts truly matter. A heart of forgiveness, compassion, inclusion, and gratitude speaks much louder than gifts or words ever could.
