A month has come and gone since the passing of my sister, Connie.
I miss her. I enjoyed
talking with Connie. She was strange in
the way I am strange. Her mind, like
mine, lacked a firm roadmap. She read
widely and was interested in rocks as much as roses. Sometimes, we talked on the phone for
hours. We could bash presidents, praise
the craftsmen in Butte, Montana, or curse the weather without spilling a drop
of coffee or stepping on any innocent children as we wandered about with our
phones, absorbed in conversation.
Connie was like sagebrush.
She was tough and could grow at just about any elevation. And she could readily balance the sacred
Mayan number thirteen with Tarot cards and Messianic Jews—even if I threw an ice-making
refrigerator at her.
She was that good!
Connie was spiritual and thoughtful and was never opposed to
laughing at herself.
When she was younger, she had a poodle named Champaign and a
friend with red hair.
When she was older, she liked to paint rooms green.
Small wonder I miss her.
—Mitchell Hegman
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