One Year
One year ago
We released you into the ocean,
salt and sky receiving what your body
could no longer carry.
As you were leaving,
I could here your song—
Here I am, Lord. It is I, Lord.
Not whispered.
Summoned –(as only you could)
As if you were calling God by name
and God already knew yours.
I still feel your tears on my cheek,
as you whispered you loved me for the last time
the quiet after the funeral
when the world kept moving
and ours seemed to be moving in slow motion.
They say when we die we leave our body
and simply go home—
to a place beyond pain,
where love is forever.
Where we become part of all
that we loved here on this earth.
I always hoped that was true.
Now I feel it.
I see you in your children—
in their determination and strong will
alongside their warm, generous hearts.
But especially in your grandchildren—
There you are.
In their eyes.
In their fighting spirit
In the echo of your courage
moving forward without asking permission.
Now I lie in bed remembering—
how your voice would say,
Hey, Lor,
and suddenly I feel younger,
braver,
protected.
I miss the fearless, unapologetic “honey badger” in you—
the one everyone knew not to mess with.
The big sister protector.
The only one allowed to poke fun at me
because love made it safe with you,
and you made it the law that is was not ok for others.
You stood in the front row of my life—
at talks, events, moments where my voice mattered—
anchoring me without saying a word.
The ocean holds you now,
but you still stand guard.
I feel it.
You are free from pain in this body,
but not really gone from this world.
You moved from flesh to energy
from sister beside me
to sister within me.
And today, one year later,
I say your name into the air—
not to call you back,
but to let you know:
I remember.
I miss you.
Stay close.
I know you already are.
