Memoria in aeterna

To say that Cassandra was an influence on my life, is like saying the ocean is big. Such simple words cannot convey the vastness, the complexities, and the intricacies of who she was to me.
She was so large a part of my life, that with the naivety of the young, I assumed she would forever be there. She was an unchanging force from my childhood, a rock through my youth, and a friend in my adulthood. It still seems hard to fathom that she is gone.

I want to tell you who she was to me:
She was my inspiration. I remember watching her draw, and swallowing up every pencil stroke. I'd ask questions, and she'd slowly go over lines, telling me the purpose behind every one.

She was a teacher. I'd listen to the adult conversations around me, following along as best I could. When I became lost in the tangle of multi-syllabic vocabulary, Cassandra would write down the word for me, so I could look it up in a dictionary, and understand for myself.

She was a friend. When my grandfather died, she was the first face I saw as I climbed out of the car from school. She hugged me close to her chest, and said she was sorry.  I was twelve, and the truth sunk into me there, on the lawn with her.

None of this is adequate. I could go on for hours, and not touch the fullness of who she was to me. She was an aunt, she was family. She was a part of my life from my very first memories. I cannot remember a time where there was no Cassandra. Whatever shall I do now that that has changed?

"And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
the last lone aster is gone;
the flowers of the witch-hazel wither;
the heart is still aching to seek,
but the feet question 'Whither?'

Ah, when to the heart of man
was it ever less than a treason
to go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season? "

I never realized how much I loved and cared for her, until she was gone. And so I grieve.