In March of 2005, I lost one of my dearest friends. My cooking buddy. My business partner. A girl who stood up for me on my wedding day, and spent the night before stuffed into bed with me as we giggled about weddings and babies and boys.

She was an artist, a singer, and my brother’s fiance.

She died ten days after he asked her to marry him.

My voice still cracks when I say her name.

I still remember the day I had to watch my little brother carry her urn down the aisle of the church.

I remember what he was wearing, I remember the song that was playing when I got into the car to drive to the cemetery, I remember the rain.

It was too sad for even the sun that day.

It took me two days and the snot covered sleeves of three different sweatshirts to get through writing this post.

My Oma, my grandma, my uncle, acquaintances, friends of friends of friends, people I never had the chance to meet face to face.

I mourn them all the same.

I am still not numb to losing someone to cancer.

I still kiss the cheeks of my kids as they sleep, praying for their health and long lives. I scrutinize ever fever, every bump, every ear ache.

It’s a hurt I want to be done feeling. A hurt I want everyone to be done feeling.

I don’t know a single person who isn’t carrying around a story that still makes them cry so hard their insides shake.
So, let’s do that. Let’s be done with this.

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