I CAN still hear it, the harrowing sound of a flatline ringing in my ears, that long, continuous beep announcing the presence of the Angel of Death.

It was a cold, rainy morning on Nov. 9, 2007, when my sister Pinky lost her battle to ovarian cancer. She was 40, and left behind two little boys and a grieving husband.

The only occasion my family gathers is at funerals. The first was in 1994, when my father passed on one hot summer day in April, just a couple of weeks after Nirvana’s frontman, Kurt Cobain, committed suicide.

I remember spending long nights in the funeral parlor, with my Sony Discman playing Nirvana’s “Nevermind” album on loop. I sat on the last row of the pews, watching my family catching up with each other’s lives.

My brother, whom I last saw by my father’s side in the hospital a month before, was talking to his high school buddies. My other brother, whom I hadn’t seen since he graduated from college, flew in from the United States and was now talking to my mom.

My younger sister, who spent her teen years abroad, was somewhere outside entertaining her childhood friends. And Pinky—my dear, dear older sister Pinky whose funeral years later would reunite us once more—was seated by herself across my dad’s coffin. She was daddy’s girl, you see.

I had my music, and it was all I needed.

The dead have it easy. It is those they leave behind who carry the scars for a lifetime.

A few months ago, I dreamed of Pinky. It felt so real that it was the first time in a long while that I felt delirious with joy. We were supposed to eat out, but when I turned around to get my purse I woke up in bed instead.

Poof. Just like that, she was gone once more, and I was left behind, soaking in my own tears.

That’s death. When they’re gone, they’re gone. And you are left behind hoping for that epic reunion someday. Because one final goodbye is never enough.