Anna Dean

I took this photo on the drive home from an appointment that ripped out my insides, wrung them out, and shoved them back in. She was calm and her only wish was for me to drive somewhere where she could feel the sun. We sat there for 30 minutes, her eyes closed, my hand on hers. I was delusional enough to still have hope, but hopeless enough to take this photo.

Sometimes, when I’m jogging outside, I’ll get a sudden ray of sunlight on my back, and my mind returns to this moment. Her hands were always warm, dry, soft, and smelled like lotion.

Tomorrow is her 74th birthday, and I don’t quite know how to deal with her silence. It fills me with regret, sadness, and a profound longing for her. I’ll spend her day playing music, thanking her for nurturing something I love so deeply that it now holds both my grief and my healing.