I’m trying to think honestly, but, honestly, I can’t see past the grief to what is reality. And it shifts, depending on the viewer.  The beholder thinks differently about you, in their mind’s eye or when you stood–solidly in gravity–on the earth that seems so much duller without you. Reality is tricky, anyway. What is this where where we stand, breathe, laugh, have sex, rage, cry and love? Until we don’t. And why is it? Why is this our reality? This loss of what we hold most dear, this slow decay, this anger and fear?

 

But that’s not how you thought about life. You were the one I called when I felt too nihilistic, when the downs were too down and the empty, hollow yearning for a final sleep got too much. Not because you understood but because you were a lovely, soft, serene light reminding me not of what was ugly, hard and wrong but what was magic embodied in commonplace. 

 

I could hear the serenity in your eyes, picture it as you said the world is not ready for my goodbye. Cycles are normal, you said, but beauty is everywhere I look. I could see you close your eyes–that slight, peaceful smile–and I could picture with you that beauty I was too gone to see. And it always lifted me. My daughter’s wit, talent and humor. My son’s bright smile, kindness and activity. The way the clouds made shapes just to amuse you and me. The busy, beautiful lives of the little things that bark, meow, cheep and tweet. You said, “Look! See them through me…” 

 

It was a practice that never failed to help me see what the darkness blinded me to. I needed you. Did you know that? I think sometimes you thought yourself a burden, past use. I didn’t call as much as others. I didn’t ask you for anything. Did you think that meant I didn’t need you around? Because you’re not here, and I can say with all of me that I needed you just the way you were. I needed your laughter, your inappropriate oversharing, your semi-religious spirituality, even your conspiracies–they distracted me from myself. I needed you for how you managed to see.

 

You saw magic in such minor things. It was contagious, and life saving to more than me. Dad remembers the gleam in your eyes, the sparkle in your smile when you gazed at a goofy roadside attraction. He saw peeling paint, poor construction, past its prime. He wondered, as all who must have seen your joy did, what you saw that he failed to see in fiberglass and too many coats of paint? You stood as if in the presence of heavenly joy, and you were. You transcended the dingy reality of this world and saw what brought you the most joy to see. We weren’t homeless–we were adventurers, traveling the world, brave and roughing it, singing camp songs over the fire. We were Romany caravaners, building the best sandcastles known to man, standing in the shadows of giants, awe-struck by geysers, stone towers and the resiliency of a woman men and life tried to abuse. 

 

You laughed in the face of abuse, neglect and chaos and made life what you thought it was, what it should be, for you kids, who you refused to forget, refused to not prioritize, poured your everything into. And it shows. We do not know the life you knew. What we had was chaotic, strange, sometimes traumatic and often imperfect. But what a beautiful gift to transcend as you did, side-step and pour love and vivacity into everything. 

 

How did you not grow jaded when life took from you stability, health, the ability to walk, and, in the end, the ability to speak? How did you sit, dying, with that slight smile on your face? How were you serene, laughing and engaged, as I read you the last book you’ll ever experience? How did you not rage at the unfairness? How did you not scream under the intense pain? How did you worry that you were asking too much from me, with the everything you gave? 

 

I can remember all the good things–the way you smelled slightly of handmade soap, smokey but not like cigarettes, strangely enough. Like a dark cup of coffee, hippy-eque patchouli and deep, downy lavender. I can remember the way you buzzed about life like a bee–dipping your toes into everything, so long as it fit into we, the family. I recall the sound of your singing in harmony with aunt Becky, weaving ridiculous melodies to appease our travel-worn spirits. I can remember the glee in every detail you poured into your dream–your tiny, perfect house–that would take you to almost all of the places you’d wanted to see, which was anywhere your children and grandchildren turned out to be. 

 

I still remember the bad, too, but, like you, don’t often dwell on what can’t break me. Until I can’t forget it anymore. Then, suddenly, I’m so angry. I can see you, till the end, fighting for breath that was leaving you, holding a cigarette in one hand, insisting you were past fixing and you’d cling to whatever joy you had. But that joy took you from us and I can’t help but feel rage at the fact you’d do all you could to be with us, to help us, to care for us, except give up the one thing that was always going to take you from us. 

 

Look, I know all of us have vices that eventually remove us from this world. Our imperfection is our only common bond. Our crutches define us, whether it’s hiking one too many mountains and dying in the cold, a heart giving out under the unnecessary stress we let society bring upon us, drowning in a drug-induced haze, or in the smokey embrace of Marlboros. I understand that, but the anger is still there, sometimes, often. Sneaky, bitter, cold and clouding my grief with blame.

 

I don’t want my remembering in grief to be all those good things tainted by the few ugly things that seem so much more powerful to my lizard-brain. That fear protects me from making the same mistakes, but it also makes me bitter. It lessens the joy that other thoughts could bring me. I wish that I could call you again, and you’d work your magic trick. You’d remind me of the way the light hits the fog and it looks like hazy, glowing, ethereal perfection. You’d calmly tell me to have more sex, to walk in the trees, to stare at the sparkling water, and, above all, to be always thankful in my prayers. That mantra of thankfulness will save me if I recite it before I sleep. You assured me it would. It has before. Maybe it will again.

 

So here it goes:

 

I’m thankful for the way you danced, rhythmically, unlike me. 

 

I’m thankful for your fuzzy, soft head that would be no more tamed than your wild spirit. 

 

I’m thankful for your voice-soft and sweet and clear when it sang; sing-songy even when you weren’t singing.

 

I’m thankful you never withheld praise or hugs or love.

 

I’m thankful for the places you took me–the wonders we experienced wherever we were.

 

I’m thankful for your giving nature, which I inherited. 

 

I’m thankful for your art–your ability to take up anything–sewing, painting, drawing, quilting, creating. You never failed to be amazing at all the things you tried.

 

I’m thankful for your work-ethic. You gave 100% in every aspect of your life.

 

I’m thankful for your prayers, for your protective spirit. 

 

I’m thankful Randy meant to date you but grew enchanted by you and fell in love, with you and with us. It was inevitable. He could not fight your pull. Few could.

 

I’m thankful for your relationship with him, so that I could see that steady, habitual love was a possibility. 

 

I’m thankful for how soft, kind and caring he was with you when you needed him to be. Your love was given fully to him and, when you needed it, was returned tenfold. 

 

I’m thankful for your independent spirit that made you capable of fleeing bad decisions, of removing yourself from bad people and of making better places for us to be safe. 

 

I’m thankful for having been your daughter for 40 years and would have gladly been in your presence for 40 more if you could give it. 

 

I’m thankful for the time I did have you, and will grieve every day I don’t. 

 

I’m thankful that you are not tensed in pain, grimacing and wondering when it will end. 

 

I’m thankful I got to hold your hand, fix your hair, tend to your needs, like you did with me when I was in need.

 

I’m thankful you saw where you were going, vividly, and smiled in peace when you pictured it.

 

I’m thankful for you in all ways, even in anger and grief, because all of it means you were treasured, important beyond measure. 

 

I am so thankful for you.