Written in 2017 two months after Taryn died.
I’m not sure what other parents go through who lose a child but to me this feeling has become a lot like a dull ache in my chest. The road ahead looks long to me. It’s two months this Sunday that she died and somehow it feels like years have gone by in the blink of an eye. It seems impossible yet the silence in my world is deafening. I’m grateful for the strangest things. I’m grateful that I already touched the face of death when I lost a dear friend 14 years ago and my father 11 years ago. I’m grateful for the understanding I gained then through reading every book I could find on near death experiences and how to cope with loss all those years ago. It does help a little to know she’s safe and in a beautiful world of spirits that defies description with love, light and family all around her and experiencing things that she is so happy and excited to learn.
There’s this gap. This place where I live now, between me and the daughter who knows my heart. It’s a road and it goes on into the horizon. I look at it and it looks so far away. So full of time. I know that’s something to be grateful for too. Time is either your friend or your enemy. Sometimes both. We can fill it up with memories and make sure we make those with people we love because it makes the road trip bearable. If I didn’t have so many wonderful memories of her this would feel so much worse than it does. I can literally close my eyes and remember everything about her. There are not enough adjectives in the English Language to describe her. I love the Japanese kanjis that pack so much meaning into what you’re trying to say. They put feelings and even experiences in there. That’s how I feel when I think of her. So many things all wrapped up in this story of beauty and humanity. She was amazingly flawed and I loved every problem, every issue and every mess she made. No conditions, that’s the way it’s supposed to be.
So this road. This time. Looks daunting and a little scary now but it’s time for a road trip I think.

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