on the day of her death, we noticed new leaves were poking their tiny arms out of the dark earth, from beds she had inspired; reaching toward the sun, stretching, bright green and young, bursting with new life.
on the day of her death, we decided we would still go to the pier after all and go on all the rides and play and have fun, in her honor, because she would have wanted it that way, the kids were sure. and we did. they must have gone on that roller coaster ten or fifteen times and every now and then, one of them would say something like "will the happiness be gone from our home for very long?" or "you know, now grandma is sewing the stars on the throne of god in heaven" and things like that and i would smile and save the tears inside for later, when i was alone, after they were fast asleep and dreaming.
on the day of her death, i thought about the speech the principal gave at my sister's school, when she graduated and how he made sure we understood that they had not prepared these kids for life, no. "have we prepared them for life? no", he said. and i remembered standing there with my jaw hanging open thinking, "well, what the hell have you guys been doing all these years at this unbelievably expensive private school?" and i looked at my own children and wondered what the hell i was doing to prepare them.
on the day of her death, i sorted through pictures and found that, like me, she had been the one taking the pictures, not standing in them, so much, and i thought, i need to take more pictures of myself, perhaps.
on the day of her death, i held my husband in my arms and rocked him and felt his body shake as he sobbed and my heart burst into a million tiny pieces with his. i said goodbye and reached out with my mind to all the memories i have tucked away there and listened to her voice in my head all day and the next day and the next.
