March 18, 2013


I want to remember what I'm feeling.

(image via)

A little over a week ago, my phone rang and something in me changed. 
A person that I had known my whole life had unexpectedly passed away. 

She was the cool older kid who always included me, she was one of the few people apart from family that we kept in touch with after we moved across the world. Our daily lives stopped crossing natural paths 15 years ago--and now that I think of it, they hardly ever crossed naturally, she just made a point to make sure they did. I am the living cliche of not realizing how much someone means to me until they are gone. Of always assuming a tomorrow, or later, or more time.

There is something about an unexpected death that I knew was tragic and heartbreaking, but haven't been able to feel until now. To be untouched by that pain for 24 years is a gift I didn't realize I was holding on to. And the pain is in my lungs, tightening the air, in my throat, choking my breath, and in an ever constant threat of pouring out of my eyes. And then there is the pain in my heart for all those she left behind. Her parents, brother, grandmother, and her son. For all of her friends, hundreds who showed up for a final goodbye.

My dad flew in to speak at her funeral and did the most incredible job of celebrating who she was and how she loved others. He spoke about time, how we are bound to it, and how we measure it. Lara was 36 years old. My dad said if we measured our lives not by days and years, but by friendships and the love we give, she would've outlived us all. And she would've. 

And so I'm re-thinking how I measure time, and how I love others.  
Thats about all I can stand to hold on to from the past week.
Even though I'm at al loss when it comes to finding a new normal,
I know it exists and that I am just learning how to grieve.

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