In a year of miserable downers, here’s something to rejoice over.
So many stories. So many writers sharing the shards of their lives. Slivers that bled. Scars that never healed. Bruises colored purple.
And through it all, showing through the act of writing their story that the shards, slivers, scars, and bruises aren’t what define you.
It’s this. Our ability to somehow stumble through the messes of life, pause, breathe long enough to say, “I matter. My story matters. And through the narrating of it, YOU matter.”
This year has shown me that we aren’t as different as think we are. We may pray to different gods or not pray at all. We may flaunt our privilege or fight for rights denied. But somewhere, our flesh burns the same. My ashes will look the same as yours in the final urn.
The only thing that will not be the same is our epitaph.
If you must remember me at all, remember me as someone who cared.
Who cared so much for the stories we carry that she wanted to gather these words and hold them close.
I hope you will care for these words, too.
They aren’t mine. But they are mine.
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Dearest Smitha
It is way too soon for epitaphs. You have too much to give and we all need what you offer us. One of my favorite memories of you happened in Istanbul, Turkey. We were gathered on the roof of our hotel having breakfast and enjoying the magnificent view of Hagia Sophia. We had just given you a Luchador mask from Mexico. You loved it, put it on and demonstrated your wrestling chops as we all fell off our chairs laughing. The photo of that moment has sustained me in many a dark moment. For this and so many other wonderful times together, we hold you close in our hearts as family.