It hasn’t sunk in. Last week we were having dinner, laughing around a fire, roasting Peeps, planning for the fall. And this week your father stopped by my house, saying words that I couldn’t quite comprehend. River. Accident. Not with us. 

At first, I thought it was a horrible, sick joke. When I realized it was, in fact, true, I screamed. I sobbed. I shook my head. We hugged. 

And today, we paid you one last visit. I thought this would bring closure. But it didn’t. I want you in this world. I want you to mother your sons. I want you to grandmother their future children. I want you to bury your parents, not the reverse. 

See, I’ve always admired you. I was older than you, so we weren’t at the same schools at the same time, but we were in church groups together. You were beautiful. You were kind. Even as a teenager. You had style. 

You were going to design my dream house. Your aesthetic was incredible. The houses you designed, I was in awe of. We talked about buying property outside of town. Near the creek. I imagined us being neighbors into old age.

When I serendipitously bought a house across the street from yours when I moved from CA to NC, not even knowing you lived in Asheville, I couldn’t believe my luck. I honestly believed I had angels watching over me. You, as always, were so welcoming, and the 25 years since we had seen each other disappeared. Every time I spent time with you, I came away thinking, “I wish I were more like her.” So gracious. So kind. So welcoming. So non-judgmental. I anticipated us having many more years together of dinners, sharing wines, exchanging stories, hatching plans. 

We placed flowers around your lovely face. You were beautiful, even in your casket. I held hope that you would rise, like Lazarus. That your light would be among us again. I waited. Hot tears, full of hope, ran down my cheeks. I tried to cry silently, and small whimpers escaped my throat. I miss you. So much.