I always remember how you danced around the kitchen table, swaying left to right with steps so light that I was afraid you would fly away. But you were tethered to this earth. By choice, by divine intervention, by a lifeline of oxygen pumping air into your lungs.
Prior to lunch you always sang the same song. A familiar melody that reminded you of the before times. A time when your body was always in constant motion, each action so fluid and precise, when your hands created golden moments from the mundane. You held an aura of elegance, a polished refinement that carried you into the hearts of many where they considered you royalty.
You wore that crown proudly, unknowingly making every gathering a personal red carpet. This made it so that your absence was always noticeable, a large spot of white space in what would be a perfect picture. No matter how many of your kin were there, they would always ask for you. The star of the show, the leading actress, the person that they adored the most.
Everyone stood as proof of how much you were loved. And I still don’t think we told you this enough. But they say you always realize these things too late. Now, all we have left are voicemails we refuse to erase, a closet of clothes we don’t know what to do with, and an album of pictures to remind us what life was like before.
But to me, you are still dancing around the kitchen table, a lifeline of oxygen tethering you to this earth, preventing you from flying away and becoming a small speck in the sky. You are still right here in front of me, visible and humming over the whirr machines running to keep you alive. I close my eyes and imagine you are sprinting through a meadow at sunset, carefree, happy, alive and well.