An Odyssey Through Love and Loss

The old usage, “Out of sight, out of mind”, never rang true for me. I am not the kind of person who forgets those I hold dear, no matter how much time or distance separates us. My heart clings tightly to my loved ones – my family, my pets, and, most of all, my elder sister, Magyi Moe. She was my rock, my confidante, and my greatest ally in a world that often felt too big and too chaotic. But life, as it so often does, had other plans for us, plans that would test the limits of love, loss, and regret.
Magyi Moe was five years older than me, a gap just wide enough to make her seem infinitely wiser yet close enough for us to share secrets and dreams. Growing up in our cosy little home in a bustling town, we were inseparable despite our differences. I was the wild one – impulsive, carefree, and always teetering on the edge of mischief. Magyi Moe, on the other hand, was the steady hand, the one who kept our family grounded. Her patience was a marvel, especially when it came to me. I’d wheedle and whine, pushing her buttons with a grin, knowing she’d forgive me every time. But when I crossed the line, suppose I say, “borrowing” her favourite scarf without asking, her gaze would turn sharp, her voice firm but never cruel. She’d scold me, sometimes with a raised voice that echoed through our small house, other times with a quiet disappointment that cut deeper than any shout.
I’d roll my eyes, pretending her words were just noise, but deep down, I knew she was right. Magyi Moe was the reliable one, the one who helped Mom with dinner, who made sure Dad’s coffee was ready before his early shifts, who always had a plan when I had none. I was the fair-weather sister, flitting through life with little regard for consequences, trusting Magyi Moe to pick up the pieces. Despite our differences, her love for classical music versus my obsession with loud pop tunes, her neat braid versus my messy curls, we loved each other fiercely. Our bond was a tapestry woven with laughter, shared secrets, and the kind of loyalty that only sisters understand.
It’s a strange quirk of human nature that we often fail to see the worth of those closest to us until they’re gone. When Magyi Moe was by my side, I took her for granted, assuming she’d always be there to nag me about my messy room or to sneak me an extra cookie when Mom wasn’t looking. But life has a way of teaching lessons in the cruellest ways. The saying goes that absence makes the heart grow fonder, and I learned this truth in the hardest way possible.
Absence comes in two forms: the temporary kind, where you part ways for a while but know you’ll reunite, and the permanent kind, where the goodbye is final. I’d experienced the first kind plenty of times when Magyi Moe went off to college for a semester or when I spent a summer at Grandma’s village. Those separations were filled with phone calls and late-night texts, her voice a comforting anchor across the miles. But nothing could have prepared me for the second kind, the one that steals breath and shatters dreams.
It was a crisp winter day when the world tilted. Magyi Moe had been feeling off for months – tired, a little pale, her usual energy dimmed. She brushed it off, blaming long hours at her job as a librarian and her love for greasy takeout. “I just need to eat better,” she’d say with a laugh, popping another fry into her mouth. But when the doctor’s call came, the word “cancer” sliced through our lives like a blade. Breast cancer, aggressive and unyielding, had taken root in my sister’s body.
The months that followed were a blur of hospital visits, chemotherapy sessions, and whispered prayers. Magyi Moe faced it all with her trademark courage, her smile never quite fading even as her hair thinned and her strength waned. I tried to be there for her, but I was a storm of emotions — angry at the universe, terrified of losing her, and guilty for every time I’d ignored her advice to eat healthier or take life more seriously. She’d always warned me about my junk food binges, but I’d laughed it off, saying, “Live a little, Magyi Moe!” Now, those words haunted me.
Despite the best efforts of her doctors, the cancer was relentless. Magyi Moe, once so vibrant, grew frail, her laughter replaced by quiet moments of reflection. In her final weeks, she’d sit by the window, watching the leaves fall, and talk about the life she’d wanted – travelling to PyinOoLwin, adopting a dog, maybe even writing a book. I’d listen, my heart breaking, promising we’d do it all together someday. But “someday” never came.
She passed away on a summer morning, just shy of her 31st birthday. I was holding her hand, the hospital room silent except for the soft beeping of machines. She looked at me, her eyes still bright despite the pain, and whispered, “Be good, okay?” I nodded, unable to speak, as she slipped away.
Her death left a void that no amount of tears could fill. I’d always dreamed we’d grow old together, two spinster sisters looking after our parents, bickering over who made better pancakes. But Magyi Moe had left me behind, and I was drowning in regret. I replayed every moment I’d dismissed her; every time I’d snapped back at her gentle scolding, every chore I’d dodged, every time I’d chosen my own fun over helping her. She’d been more than a sister; she’d been a second mother, always there to solve my problems, to guide me when I was lost. And I’d taken it all for granted.
One memory stung the most. A year before her diagnosis, we’d fought over something trivial, borrowing her tablet without asking. She’d lectured me about responsibility, and I’d stormed out, shouting, “You’re not my mom!” Now, those words were a knife in my heart. If I could go back, I’d listen to every word, do every chore, and tell her every day how much I loved her. But time doesn’t offer do-overs.
In the months after Magyi Moe’s death, I wandered through life like a ghost, haunted by her absence. I kept her scarf on my bedside table, her favourite book on my shelf, as if keeping her things close could keep her with me. But slowly, I began to understand the lesson she’d left behind: love your family while they’re here. Cherish the moments – the mundane, the messy, the beautiful – because they’re fleeting.
I started small. I helped Mom with the dishes, listening to her stories about Magyi Moe as a child. I took Dad for walks, letting him ramble about his old fishing trips. I even adopted a scruffy little dog, naming her ‘Rain’ in honour of the pet my sister never got to have. Each act was a way to honour her, to live the way she’d always encouraged me to.
My story isn’t unique, but it’s one I share with a purpose. To my readers, I urge you: don’t wait for loss to teach you the value of love. Hug your parents, call your siblings, and laugh with your friends. Say the words you might regret leaving unsaid. Life is unpredictable, and the people we love are not promised to us forever.
Magyi Moe’s memory lives in me, not just in sorrow but in the way I choose to live now. I strive to be a little more patient, a little more kind, a little more like her. And though I’ll never stop missing her, I carry her love with me, a light to guide me through the darkness of regret. So, while alive, love fiercely, forgive freely, and hold your family close. You never know when the chance might slip away.

(To a friend who has lost her dearest elder sister recently…)