Today is a day. Just your average wonderfully ordinary Sunday where people do things like have lunch, watch television, have birthdays (Hey Michelle!) eat, breath, walk, talk, sleep and then start out all over again tomorrow.
Today is also the anniversary of when my Stephie stopped being alive. Nine years ago. I know it's not the big ten, that is usually the one to get marked, but something happened recently that got me missing her even more than usual. I was spending time with Sissy's kids and I started to tell a story that involved Stephie when only her oldest Taysie remembered her. I felt gutted. No spark, no tiny piece of memory from them. Nothing.
They are missing out on her and she on them. The giggles, the jokes, all the family parties with the wretched verses of Happy Birthday that can make your ears bleed. Her tiny feet and hands. Her smile. Purple, always purple.
It's tragically and beautifully strange, because her funeral was during the time of Hurricane Katrina, and I kept thinking how lucky we were to have her body to bury. Now, every year the anniversary of Katrina and all of that misery is mixed with those memories of sitting next to her special purple casket and being so grateful, and now it is mixed with such longing and sadness for everyone that doesn't get to carry the silly and fun memories of her around with them everyday.
Some may want to comfort me with platitudes of how it was her time or she's in a better place. Don't. I'm comfortable being uncomfortable about My Stephie no longer being alive. What does give me comfort is sharing stories of her, remembering her, and being here to love and enjoy all the things of life I know she would. Each and every day.