Why?

Andrea Bree Glasper Crawford: March 13, 1993- September 26, 2016.

A few weeks ago, my younger sister died. She was only 23 years-old.
I just found out yesterday.
I wasn't there. I wasn't there when she needed me to be.
Brooding on death is difficult and not knowing the whys is partly the problem.
Why it happened? Why now? Why her? Why?
Emotional weight of loss has broken eye capillaries, broken spirits. Crying has been a nonstop rain colliding down cheekbones. Sadness is rolling thunder of ruptured thoughts, loudly blasting within. Grief is an intense agony that no Band Aid can stop and smother. It stays unwavering in its intent to linger forever in the moment, excruciating pain enveloping mind and body.
Last month, she protested in Charlotte over the police shooting death of Keith Lamont Scott. Facebook has an indicator status that protesters can switch on to inform family and friends that theyw safe and alive. That was a sigh of relief mixed with being proud of her then.
Now is pure chaos.
I reflect on our phone conversations, which sometimes reached two- three hours. Funnily enough, we had much in common despite not growing up together. Our voices were similar-- bright and chipper. We loved the arts. We appreciated the natural hair movement.
She liked cooking, performing arts, and kids. She was an infant teacher. She just started college at DeVry University. She had only been married two years.  
Unfortunately, we hadn't had a phone conversation in a long time, primarily communicating via social media. Her last message, which Facebook has deleted, was to bring her something back from Paris and take lots of photos.
It's my fault. I know that much. I should have reached out more.
And now I'll miss completing true sisterly bond:

I'll never get to meet her.
I'll never get to say "I love you" to her in person.
I'll never get to touch her hand.
I'll never get to hug her.
I'll never get to kiss her cheek.
I'll never get to cook her a meal.
I'll never get to slather homemade facial mask over her face.
I'll never get to see movies with her.
I'll never get to brush her hair.
I'll never get to take her picture.

Rest in peace, Andrea. Tell Grandmother Elizabeth that I love and miss her as much as I love and miss you.