In Memory

Last July, on this day, my best friend of fifteen years lost her mom to Lupus.

That's a hard sentence for me to write.

It's been a full year and it's still hard for me to comprehend that she's really gone.

When I go visit the house I sometimes catch myself expecting to see her there.

I expect, without realizing it, that when I pull up to the curb, I'll see her hand part the blinds to check who's arrived; that when I go inside, she'll get up to hug me, laugh her laugh - the one that sounds just like her daughter's - and tell me how happy it makes her that her daughter and I are still friends after all these years.

Certain things don't go away; certain memories, certain moments. They stay with you, like the person is with you.

I remember her. I remember her blue hairbrush that she'd tuck under her hair while it dried, her laugh, the way she used to absentmindedly write out words with her fingertips on the arm of the couch when she talked, the way she put on lipstick, the way she answered the phone, how much she loved her children, her husband, her grandchildren, and - literally - everyone who ever had the pleasure of crossing her path.

She had the most love to give, the biggest heart, the most welcoming, personable, and caring approach to life - and she lived it, every second, without Lupus. She may have had Lupus, but Lupus did not have her. Ever.

She'll never be forgotten, her memory will thrive amidst the family, friends and acquaintances that she left behind; that memory will keep her with us.

And though there are many thinking of her today, I can't stop thinking of them. The family. That close-knit, loving, adoring family, with hearts as big as hers; hearts that ache today, as they remember.