I want to write, and I have no idea what I want to say, whom, or how I want to say it. These are all simultaneous truths. So this is me trying something. Having felt this internal desire to write finds me in an all too familiar place once again, fruitlessly staring at a blank page. See, the thing is, I am a logophile. I love words. I love the power and beauty words bestow on people. Possessing this immense affinity for words makes writing something, anything, an arduous endeavor.
There is a saying: Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is a gift. That is why it is called the present.”
I think that she made it to acceptance, and in so many ways, that is significant. For as much as we both needed each other, she needed my caretaker instincts, and I needed her to need me; she left this world independently of me. In her way, she gifted me her acceptance through her peace with her death