We are together, all of us.

“Tomorrow is a special day”, I say.
“What day is it?” she asks.
“It’s the day that George became spirit.”
“Oh yeah!” she flashes her big smile at me, and remembers.  “July 22.  That means it’s my birthday in 9 days.”  A fact she will never forget.  
“It really is a special day,” she declares.  “What are we going to do for him?”

We begin to list off the possibilities.  

• Build an altar
• Wear only black, white, or gray with jeans
• Go to McDonalds for breakfast
• Find a bacon-wrapped-hot dog stand, or a Primanti Bros-style sandwich
• Dine on grilled cheese -- or upgrade to sushi since I’m off dairy
• Take her new roller-shoes out for a spin
• Buy a bouquet of stargazer lilies
• Make art
• Dance

.
​We laugh and banter (and negotiate) as we make our plans.  And I realize that this is the first year we’ve purposefully, intentionally, tackled this day together.  In past years I’ve felt rather alone on the days leading up to July 22, knowing of course that there are countless others remembering, honoring, and grieving George on this day -- his parents, his family, his close friends, his community.  But there’s always been a kind of distance, whether real or fabricated, between my experience of this day and theirs.  I haven’t felt the presence of someone with whom I could share the day equally.

Now here is a girl, who like me carries a sadness in her heart.  A girl who has lost at least as much -- and arguably more -- than I, who despite having no memories or human contact with her father embodies him in countless ways and is undoubtedly his girl.  Here is a girl that I get to travel this life with.  And after 7 years of spearheading this day alone I can finally look up and see us clearly.  We are heartbroken, yes.  We are grateful, yes.  We are together, all of us.

It doesn’t get easier, really.  We get better at coping, life continues forward, we choose to accept new challenges.  The reality of loss no longer ungrounds us but the pain does not so much diminish, rather our ability to hold it all becomes a fierce will to survive.  To become something greater than pain, greater than grief, greater than the why.  To carry on without leaving anything behind.  To make it all worth it, somehow.  

I see this picture of us, and in her eyes I see him.  She is looking through the lens.  He had that same look, standing outside Gare du Nord that day -- we had just eaten crepes, and we were getting ready to say goodbye.  He had looked through the lens to reach me.  Here is his girl today, looking back at him.  I have to believe she reaches him.