On Losing A Daughter

Losing my Kimmy, what can I say? I learned to survive, I've learned to live, to laugh. I've learned to have fun again. I've learned it's ok to drive past our spots, to walk in the parks where we walked, where you played, I learned I can go to our restaurants, your bars, see your friends. I think of you commuting down Hwy 50 everyday when I drive home. I thank you everyday for the comfort of Sam the dog. I thank you for MAC makeup.
I think I am surviving, I think I am living, I think I am ok, then something comes along and slaps me upside the head.
Last year I went to premier of a dance At the Crocker Art Galley. I knew the group performing the dance. I didn't know of the artist who inspired the dance. I saw one of your high school buddies who recognized me. I told her about you. The performance was about the loss of a child. I was so stunned, I just watched the veiled dancers, shedding their gauzy shrouds to celebrate a day and putting them back on to exist another. The closing view of two little girls, one with blond hair, the other with brown, running hand-in-hand in a field of flowers. You and Emmy. My invisible veil covers my face, hiding the tears.
This year, it's the birthday celebration of a 20/30 something coworker, on your birthday. She wears a pink gerbera in her hair just like you. An orchid and card were left on the porch by a former boyfriend.
We remember, we celebrate the memories, we honor the life that was with friends and family young and old.

Happy 30th baby girl.