I also smile...

This photo was taken on August 1st, 2009 at Scott Niblock's 40th birthday party. It was an amazing night filled with the best of friends laughing, dancing, telling stories, drinking, eating, there might even have been some cigars passed around. It was one of those summer nights that's perfectly warm and dark and filled with music and the sound of every person you love all around you. It was also the last night the world was okay.

This photo sits in a black frame on the bookshelf in my living room right at eye level where I can see it every day. It's one of my favorite pictures of these three. Mom #2, Dad, Mom #1. It's a picture of the best of friends. Of family. Of people enjoying the hell out of life surrounded by the people that make their worlds go round. Their childhood friends. Their children. All they needed in life was right there in that backyard.

This was just over five years ago. I can remember the night so vividly. And yet, the next day, even more so. The next day I sat on a couch in my parents' house and listened as my mom told us that Mom #2 had colon cancer. And I remember for days after that, feeling as if the world had suddenly gone blurry. As if nothing, and everything, made sense.

The diagnosis was 18 months. The reality was over five years. For that, I guess, you say you're grateful. For that you say, praise God. But in reality? No.

I sat in my living room in Los Angeles a couple of years ago and listened to my writers' group read aloud a script I'd written about a female arson investigator in Detroit. I listened as the story finished and they read the last two scenes and the lead character said the words I've written above, "That was the last day the world was okay." In that sense, I've tried to process this for years. I've tried praying and loving and caring and ignoring and screaming and crying and nothing works. Nothing prepares you for the idea that someone you love, someone who loved you, is now dead. Gone.

There are pictures all over the house of her. There are thoughts and smiles and happy memories. And then there are days like yesterday. It was All Saints Day in the Methodist Church. A day to honor those who have gone home before us in the past year. And as I woke yesterday I just knew I couldn't step foot into that sanctuary and light that candle. I couldn't say her name and be okay with it. Because it's not okay. It's just not.

It's life. I get that. Life goes on. I get that. But as I sat here at my desk this morning, thinking about that night five years ago, my heart broke all over again. And I don't know what to do with that. I don't know how to go on with the day. Except. I do. Except. I have to.

I have to get dressed and fire up the screenwriting program. Send the emails and put the mail out. Eat an egg and thumb through the paper. Open the door and let the sunshine's warmth touch the house.

I have to. I know I do. But I also know that the world is not okay. That my world is forever different. That my mom's world and my dad's world and my sister's world is forever different. And Lord, don't get me started on sister #2 and brother. My heart beats so loudly it will surely cave in on the sound of itself.

The photograph will sustain me. There is nothing in the world that can hold me up more than the thought, the remembrance, of those times we spent together. It wasn't time yet to light a candle. Not for me. It wasn't time yet for me to be able to do so without oceans and oceans of tears. Those needed to be rolled out at home yesterday, in bed, silently. And that's okay. I know that. Because frankly, it has to be.

Grief is horrible and terrible and soul sucking and lonely. It is also beautiful and uplifting and enlightening and the best and the worst reminder that we are not alone in this life. Never.

Today I grieve. But I also laugh. I cry. But I also smile. God gave me an amazing family. An amazing life. For that, and for every single moment, I am grateful. Even if the moments are cut short.