In the twelve years since you died, I moved eleven times and saw five therapists. I hiked in the Grand Canyon, backpacked through Europe, and drank wine in the high, open window of a Montreal hostel. I took a train alone from Toronto to Vancouver, sleeping upright in my seat for three nights. I graduated from college. I fell in love. I hung your portrait above my desk.
In those dozen years I considered but did not attend graduate school. I read hundreds of books, wrote four, and published one. I got married, bought a house, and adopted two cats. I walked through graveyards. I learned how to cook, how to garden, how to juggle. I fasted. I stopped eating dairy and then started again. I mentored troubled girls. I led disabled children around on ponies. I took up yoga and jogging and joined the Y. I got my wisdom teeth out. I visited the emergency room twice. I kayaked, attended pottery classes, carved pumpkins, and screamed on roller coasters.
