Life Goes On

After my sister, Cindy, died, I was amazed that the rest of the world went on as usual. This immediate sense of isolation hit full force when, from the window of a limo en route to her funeral, I watched the world go by.

Before the limo picked us up for the funeral, some family pictures were taken. We all looked so morose. I sat in the back of the limo between my parents and held mom’s hand. Her hand was very warm whereas my own hand felt like ice. I looked at mom. She looked at me. She squeezed my hand. I felt like a zombie.

The limo driver was a young woman who took us along the waterfront around Richmond, B.C. Canada.

It was a long ride on a sunny day.

I looked out the window and watched the people, the trees, the water, the birds, everything go by.

Life was still carrying on out there.

Life was at a standstill for me.

I dreaded arriving at the funeral home, wondering what it would be like. I thought, “My God, we will be paying our respects to Cindy. She is dead. She must be. If everyone is acting this way and going to her funeral, then she must be dead.”

Oh God, I hadn’t wanted it to be true.

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My Friend
The unsolved mystery of the death of Cindy James

Phoenix rising from a lock of hair!

After my sister’s death I felt I had lost a mirror for my heart and had wanted to keep connected to her. So for 17 years I cherished photos of Cindy James – and photos of us together – and kept special mementos and belongings. I even wore some of her clothes for a while because in wearing them I felt closer to her. And sometimes I revisited the clothes and ran my fingers through the material and smelled their familiar scent. This important ritual did wonders to soothe my tortured soul! (For me, even wearing Cindy’s favorite color, purple, allowed me to feel close to her.) Over time I was able to say goodbye to some things and let go.

Several years ago the police passed on to my parents the clothing Cindy wore on the day she died. When I found out dad had thrown it all away, I was devastated. He said the smell and the constant reminder of Cindy’s tragedy caused him to chuck it out. But I would have taken it all, just in case there was forensic evidence that could have been reevaluated in today's modern labs. Then I wondered if there was ANY evidence, like hair or fibers, left in the police files (which I found out were closed as “suicide” even though they were supposed to remain open because of the undetermined verdict at the inquest). In fact, was there anything left of Cindy, anywhere? We had cremated her so I assumed all vestiges of Cindy were now long gone. Well, I was wrong! – Before me is a three-inch-long lock of Cindy’s golden hair, sealed in a plastic bag, at the back of a photo album recently put together just for me. Someone who also loved Cindy mailed it to me. So here I sit with a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. I’m overwhelmed. I wasn’t expecting the hair to be there. So excuse me as I take the time to gently run my fingers over the hair, and slowly devour the album one photo at a time.

Melanie Hack

Author of Who Killed My Sister, My Friend -
The unsolved mystery of the death of Cindy James