dilara earle @wanderlustvines

Two Januarys ago I packed a backpack and my camera. I left. I did not know how long I would be gone. I did not know you would die.

White flowers were suddenly very present. My mother cried much more hysterically than I expected, in the days afterward. It doesn't occur that I will never see you again.

Where did you go, Pearl? I still haven't cried very much. Maybe it is this anchoring knowing that you aren't lost to Death completely. You are just somewhere else that I will arrive to one day, too.

Two Januarys ago I left. You cried. Your cards crossed the oceans and you would wait for my skype calls patiently, even though you were ninety-four. You loved me more deeply than I ever knew, until the end. When I got that phone call to come home: the unthinkable was happening. I raced Death home. I'm lost now, every day. I throw away your clothes, except a pink cardigan I can't bear to see go and the letter opener and then many things, that end up a big collection of you. I'm lost and yet found every time I go to your little pink house at the end of the lane. You loved pink. Two winters past I opened your farewell card on the plane. You had written simply with love and signed with a small, cramped "haste ye back." And I'll always come back to you.

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