When it's a birthday

or a holiday, or the beginning of school, or the end of school, or you see a barrette, or a button, that belonged to her, you wonder what life would have been like if she were still alive.
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4 comments:

  1. CindySeptember 17, 2009 at 6:17 PM

    I think she would have loved the dresses in Marshalls this past summer. And I hear that flat fringed boots are coming into style. I'm sure Elizabeth would be favoring another cutting edge style of footwear by now. I only wish she were here to show us. I also don't think Elizabeth would be approving of this year's cast of Project Runway either.

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  2. AnonymousSeptember 19, 2009 at 11:33 PM

    This summer my daughter spent at home, the first one in years-no camp, no internship, no travels, just her in the yellow room, working and spending time with friends. And me. When I was aware of small annoyances-the gas tank almost empty, a dirty glass left behind, the dryer full of wrinkled clothes, I stopped and thought of you-the breath catching in my throat, the pain almost real to me. I am grateful for every minute and will never take one for granted.
    This is Elizabeth's legacy: at least one other mother out there will never forget the preciousness that is this life.
    My heart aches for you.

    ~Smith Mom~

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  3. AnonymousSeptember 23, 2009 at 10:18 AM

    It is true that the pain will last, but equally true that the love will outlast it. She continues to inspire me to write, and read, and move, and take chances, and see the beauty and power of curiosity that made her such a force in so many people's lives. This stuff isn't fake, this inspiration and love. She moved so many, and so she still moves.

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  4. Patricia MarkertOctober 17, 2009 at 7:35 PM

    Still wishing the anonymous people would let me know who they are. I love receiving comments, but it would be even more meaningful to know you buy name.

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How Dina Aunty relished her memories. Mummy and Daddy were the same, talking about their yesterdays and smiling in that sad-happy way while selecting each picture, each frame from the past, examining it lovingly before it vanished again in the mist. But nobody ever forgot anything, not really, though sometimes they pretended, when it suited them. Memories were permanent. Sorrowful ones remained sad even with the passing of time, yet happy ones could never be re-created—not with the same joy. Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain.

> From A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry