Paris has always been romanticised by writers and travellers alike. Perhaps so much so that it falls short of expectations for some, but my heart was swayed by the connection that my sister had with this beautiful, pink-hued city. I had no intentions to go anywhere but London, but Allen reminded me of how much Liz loved Paris and how she and I had planned to meet there in five months times. So, we caught the Eurostar train from London and after three short hours, we found ourselves in the heart of Paris.
In Australia late March this year, I made the pilgrimage to London to pack up my sister’s things.
Only three weeks prior, I was woken up with news that meant things would and could never be the same.
My little sister was gone.
Things dissolved into numbers for me.
252 days since we had last held her in our arms at the airport.
154 days until we were supposed to eat our way through Europe together.
29 days until she was due to fly home for a visit.
13 days since I had last spoken on the phone to her.
4 days until her birthday.
And only a day since we last messaged each other.
My sister was one of the few people who knew and had experienced my all shortcomings and despite them, accepted me, loved me and encouraged me; without fail and without judgement.
In time, I hope to find the drive and the heart to start blogging again. But for now, I’ll start with my trip to London, Paris and Morocco – just a few of the places my sister and I were so looking forward to exploring together.
Every single day, my thoughts always wander to you.
So this is for you, my dearest Liz.