Dear eema,
As I approach the five month mark since you’ve been gone, things inside of me have been up and down and okay and not okay and a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Every evening I still have that nano second where I think about calling you. Our evening calls were a lifetime habit for me and apparently it’s a hard one to break. 
I’ve been spending a lot of time with your stuff lately. Your stuff that you loved so very much. It makes me so happy just to look at it! you’d often say of each and every knick and each and every knack. You really enjoyed your things. I liked watching you as you watched your electric porcelain butterfly as it lit up and flapped it’s wings. A wide smile on your face, Isn't it beautiful? You were very good at appreciating your things. Maybe because you grew up so poor that the idea of having anything that wasn’t necessary to you and your family’s survival wasn’t part of the program. I’m guessing that having things that were pretty to look at didn’t rate as a high priority when you’re standing in a bread line. 
Cleaning out your home, the one you lived in for the past thirty four years, the one you were determined to continue to live in and eventually die in. You told me that time and time again. You got your wish and I’m comforted by the thought of you “winning.” You said it to me, in the last month of your life, when you were struggling with physical therapy and didn’t want to do anything anymore. You were so frustrated by everyone telling you what to do. Telling you what was best for you. Let me win something. Sometimes I need to win something.
 The other day I had a moment alone in the condo.  I laid myself down on the carpet where your hospice bed was. In the spot where you took your last breath. I looked up at the same ceiling you looked at when you said your last sentence, Wow. This is such a beautiful bus! I read somewhere that people who are dying often make a reference to travel. They talk about plane tickets. They ask when the train is coming. For you, you were well on your way to somewhere, driving on such a beautiful bus. You were smiling, in awe, in childlike wonder of it all. You were good at that too - your face wore a lifelong appreciation of wonder. 

Since I used your garage as a storage unit for my stuff, I’ve recently had the pleasure of getting reacquainted with my stuff as well. Cards, love letters, photos I forgot I took, photos of me I forgot existed. Images of many people who are no longer here. Smiling faces of all the people who have touched my life, in what seems like lifetimes ago. I brought home my forgotten memories. At this very moment my past is now mingling with my present. I imagine each item popping out of their boxes while I sleep and going full on Toy Story in my living room. 
The other day this thought occurred to me:  the one person who thought I could do anything in this world is no longer here to tell me that I could do anything in this world. The good news is, I implanted that thought into my own mind early on, so I can tell myself that whenever I need to. Still, the realization that my biggest fan has left the building… stings.
But, this is how it goes, isn’t it? We miss what we’ve loved when it’s no longer here to love. But, surprisingly, somehow the missing doesn’t feel like it’s taking anything away from me. It’s just another aspect of me. It’s now another thing I have. I have this missing of you and it’s okay. I have this now because I got to have you my whole life. I’m lucky. I know it. And now I have this. I love you. 
annie