Eighth Deathiversary for Chris

Photo taken by Rose Way at Spirit Island in the Hall of the Gods, Maligne Lake, Jasper National Park, Canada

It’s been eight years. You’d be 72 today, and in addition to Jon and your boys, you’d have three daughters-in-law, two living grandkids, and another on the way. I’d known you for five years when you died. At the time, that felt like a while. Now it doesn’t. I’m a very different person today than the woman who held your son’s hand in the sick room. You would’ve been different now, too. Changed by the growth of your family, your new roles as grandmother and mother-in-law (you always wanted a daughter and now you have three of them ❤️). Retirement with Jon. The process of aging. The death of your parents. The impact of the pandemic. Political, social, and environmental upheaval around the world. The joy and grief carving new pathways and revealing new shapes of your personality. You were a thinker and a feeler. A lifelong learner and grower. So of course you would’ve been changed by all of this, different than I remember you. And that thought brings in some happiness alongside the sadness. Focusing not on time taken unfairly from you, instead I envision you in your power–a woman who’s grown even more thoughtful, incisive, loving, and kind than she was eight years ago. A woman continuing to find ways to make the world around her better. It makes your memory feel less static, more alive. Because there is life in death, and I still feel you there, as a guiding force and a warm light.