photo of Susanna, April, 2014

April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land,

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

from The Waste Land by T.S. Elliot

I miss Susanna in the sunshine. I miss her in the rain. I miss her in the snow. I miss her in October when the air cools, and I start mentioning that the veil is thin. I miss her in April, when Easter passes with a clump of pink glittery Peeps and crocuses, and I start to relive the whole thing again. The trip to my mother’s house (which now belongs to another family), saying good bye to her while machines breathed for her and pumped her heart. Choosing an undersized white casket with her initials engraved (the last part I do not remember very clearly, but I know we did that). I relive all of it other times, too. Honestly, I miss Susanna every day with every breath I take. She is always with me just as when I carried her in a Baby Bjorn, or pushed her in the obtrusive double stroller, or when we shopped together for silky party dresses and hair ornaments. I won’t take enough breaths to miss her enough, there is no such thing. I will stop missing her when I close my eyes for the last time, and open them in another dimension where I will joyfully shout her name, and never have to miss her again.

Some private notes to Susanna

I can’t believe it has been ten years. I know you are watching, but just an update:

Your brother has grown up. If you could come back, you would look funny next to him (but both of your souls have always been old).

We have a dog.

Your father and I don’t go to work anymore. I retired early so I can draw on my iPad all the time. I know you would approve.

Give Grandma a big hug for me. We love you forever and ever.