This was a Good day

I saw flashes of light today. While I was at work, I kept seeing little sparkles of light to my right, that would disappear as soon as I tried to look at them. I could try to explain it away as something strange with the lighting, or glitter on my cheek or any number of other perfectly logical explanations.

But I sat down today and I started writing the story, Her Story, and it has never come easier to me. I'm afraid to jinx it now, and hit another wall, but I feel like she was there, cheering me on and sharing her story with me. I feel like she was giving me answers.

I've felt so good today.

Writing Fiction From Fact

I have this story that I've been wanting to write. It's the story of my cousin's last moments. Just before her truck swerves, she and her passenger are pulled out of the truck and taken to a myriad of places, talking with two angels about their future plans, their families, their relationship with each other before it's revealed to them that one of them will die. As the driver, it is up to my cousin to take the knowledge that she has just gleaned and make the decision. Turning the wheel an inch or two one way or the other determines where the truck will hit the tree. It determines who takes the most impact. It determines who gets to survive the coming accident. When they're back in the car, without knowing why, she turns the wheel the tiniest bit to the right, sparing her friend and sacrificing herself. And there's a moment, before the collision, when she remembers the time with the angels, remembers her decision, and smiles just a little.

I don't know how many times I've opened the document to try and write this story. I must have started it twenty times. I can't seem to get it quite right, and I can't seem to move forward with it until I do. I'm stuck somewhere at the beginning without being able to move on. Is there a metaphor in that somewhere?

I don't know why I feel the urge to write this story. I don't know why I feel like I need it so badly. And maybe I'm still too close to it, too close to the tragedy and the pain to be able to voice the peace that this story contains. I don't know. But it's the most frustrating case of writer's block I've ever had.

Seraph

A strange thing has happened since my cousin died.

I've mentioned before that she and I were not particularly close. We have a very large family (our parents make up a part of six children, all of whom have children of their own, half of which have been divorced and remarried to someone who previously had children, so there's upwards of fifty of us). We always see the family on the holidays, and certain other special occasions. Sometimes, it's just a barbecue in the summertime, but we see each other. We visit. We know the basics about each other -- this one plays football, that one's a cheerleader, those two are musicians, etc. And since we've been around each other for all our lives, we can easily have conversations and be around each other.

That does not guarantee a closeness. I've learned more about my cousin since she died than I ever knew about her while she lived. This makes me sad. More than sad. It makes me regretful, which is something that I rarely am. And perhaps that explains the strange thing.

Over the last couple of months, my cousin has turned into a guiding star for me. When I'm upset, or I feel lost, or I just can't handle the stress of the life I'm living, I find myself turning to her. I turn to her, in my mind, and I say, "What am I supposed to do now?" I ask her for her guidance and I try to take the knowledge that I have of her and figure out what she would say to me. A lot of times, when I feel myself breaking, I'll see a picture of her. It's rarely the same picture, it's always at a random moment, but something in that photo gives me the answer I'm looking for. Something shining in that still of her face says, "Don't give up on your dreams," or, "Smile," or, "Just give 'em some attitude," and it's always exactly right.

I feel that this is purposeful. I feel that it's intentional. I feel that this is a gift given to me from her, from the world. It doesn't feel odd and it doesn't feel selfish. It feels right that she would be the one to lead me to the right path, that she would help become the person that I long to be. When I need a hand to hold, it seems like she's right there holding it. Maybe it doesn't sound right, maybe it sounds like I'm glad she's dead, but I'm so thankful to have her beside me. I'm so incredibly thankful to not have to feel completely alone.

I know she made people feel like that when she was alive. I know that everyone who was close to her felt that she did that for them. And I just hate that I couldn't have had her living comfort, too.

I hope that the rest of them know she's there. I hope that they feel her, holding their hands when they're lost, touching their shoulders when they cry. Because I know they're lost. And I know they cry. And I know she's there for them.

Tomorrow

I think what I hate the most right now is that I didn't realize how important she was while she was alive. I had no idea that she meant this much, that it would hurt so badly that she was gone. And even though this tragedy has brought so many of us together, it makes me wonder. It makes me wonder how many others there are -- how many other people do I take for granted? How many others in my life would I miss this much? Or more? How many times a day do I say, "Next time ..."

The last time I saw her, I said, "Next time, we'll actually get to talk," as I walked out the door after only a quick hello. How often does that happen? And how many people have been taught such a difficult lesson? That sometimes, there isn't a next time. Sometimes, what we're left with today is all that we're left with.

And I just ... I just never could have seen this coming.