On the day she left, she took a nap and never woke up. At least that’s how I remember it. 

It was strange, because daytime napping was not in her repertoire. She had a cold though, and I was glad she was getting some rest. After a few hours, I was worried. When the hospice nurse took her blood pressure, I knew. 

Despair — instant, undiluted, overwhelming despair — came next. Then, panic and disbelief.  There was anger too,  but it was quickly suppressed because I wanted her to know only peace in her last moments. The rest of it is a blur, but by all objective and intuitive measures, she was comfortable. I don’t even know when she died exactly, because it just seemed like she was in a deep sleep.

I rediscovered this picture recently.

It’s her last picture, and I avoided it for years because I don’t like the idea of a last anything when it comes to Julianna. The picture was taken shortly after we realized she was dying. When I could breathe again, I gave her the most desperate and intentional hug of my life.  My memory tells me that she was sleeping, but the picture proves that she was awake.

I don’t know what this means, other than the terrible truth that memories  are unreliable.Her memories are now older than the number of years she got to make them, and they have weakened. Some have even disappeared. It’s one of the things I hate most about the passage of time.

She’s a feeling now, stronger and bigger than my aging memories. I feel her urgency, lightness, delight and depth. Rip-apart pain, paralyzing fear, pure joy. And the Love that covers everything.

Eight years ago today.