It's been three years this week that you were taken from me. Three years since I brought home a fruit smoothie and had you steal it from me after I got only two sips. You haven't raided my jewelry box and looked at me like a little girl and said, "Can I have it?" I haven't seen that fire in your eyes when someone has been done an injustice or had you give me a hard time over one of my choices. I haven't seen the latest color of your hair or Hello Kitty nails on your long slender fingers. It's been so long and yet I remember everything about you. Every last detail of your face.
I hate this. I hate remembering that awful day you left us. I'm hoping with enough time that all the details will fade so far into the past that I won't remember the color of the cinder block walls in that waiting room at the hospital, the doctor's eyes as he looked at me when there was no hope and his voice when he gently touched my arm and said, "She's gone." After that I struggle to take a deep breath. There is no understanding. How could there be? It's so confusing for a parent to be without their child and still go on breathing. Something is fundamentally out of balance with that and you know what I'm talking about because when Kayan died you gladly followed him just like I wish I could have followed you. This life isn't done with me yet. I know that.
You will always be this beautiful thing. The score on my heart that is a tattoo of a mother. I wear the same one you do. Mine is for you and yours is for Kayan.
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