She’s been away for 12 years now, but everywhere, she remains. I don’t let go of the things that made her unapologetically her. I keep the things long forgotten.
I see myself in the pieces given to me. In pieces still waiting to be found.
I see her. I see my future and her past. I love them both.
When the days grow longer, and the ice starts to melt, I’m reminded that several years ago, the sharpest pain would burrow deep inside my chest. Nothing dulled it. It worsened with other losses. It kept me awake. It left me to wallow.
She left us things, purposefully and not. No year has passed without finding something new from her. I give thanks every day.
I hold her close to my heart where I lay a borrowed broach. This helps.
And it won’t matter if no one loves the feeling of garish and kitsch like she did. I do.
I always will.
And that, to me, anyway… is style.