My mother had two sisters, but grew up with only one.
An annual tradition for me as a child was visiting my mother’s family cemetery in Ridgewood, Queens. This cemetery,y where my great grandparents are buried, was also the final resting place for my mother Betty’s baby sister Marilyn.
As soon as we arrived at the cemetery and walked to the family plot, my mother would ask in a plaintive voice, “Where is my little sister?” Even before she paid tribute to her beloved father Arthur, who was also buried there, my mother wanted to see Marilyn, the little sister, who died from a tragic accident at home when she was only 2. That trauma stayed with the little 5-year-old girl, Betty, who would grow up to be my mother.
Today, whenever I visit the family cemetery, I repeat the words my mother always uttered and place a stone on this little sister’s grave, a sister who would not grow up to be my aunt.
Her picture hangs in my house, her bronzed baby shoes from 1932 displayed on my bookshelf.
I make sure that this sister, Marilyn, is remembered.
#NationalSistersDay
Envisioning The American Dream 
How very sad and also a very sweet remembrance. Marilyn would have loved her niece Sally.
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There was a baby studio portrait of Marilyn that looked startling like me. I stumbled upon it when I was very little and asked my mother if this was me and that is when she told me for the first time that she had had another sister.
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What a terribly sad story, but it’s wonderful that you make sure the memory of Marilyn is not lost.
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I feel like I am honoring them both. I have several family members who died in the 1918 flu when they were in their early 20s and I keep a photo of them in display too, so they are never forgotten by their family
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