February 29, 2012 at 10:31pm
Anyone who knew Tara knows that when she set her mind to something, it was probably going to happen. My first encounter with Tara was brief, but she set her sights on me and there was no escaping the warm and loving embrace of her friendship. The first time Tara and I went out, we fell into an easy rhythm, as if we'd always been friends, or, as Tara would correct me, "sisters."
We didn't actually have that much in common. Maybe that's why we sometimes seemed more like sisters than friends. We connected at a fundamental level, but diverged on much of the superficial. We effortlessly respected and supported each other regardless of our differences -- the way that family should.
There is an excruciating void in her home, in the world, in my life. Everywhere I look, I see her smile, I *feel* her smile, I hear her laughter. I try to cling to the memories of our happy times and to shake the sad and painful moments that were wrapped up in the dying process.
The morning after Tara passed away, my 5-year-old daughter Hannah woke up and the first thing she said was, "Mommy, I hope I have a fun life, even though Tara died." I told her I hoped so too, because that was what Tara wanted. More than anything, she wanted to live a happy, healthy long life. But if she couldn't, then she wanted her loved ones to keep living . . . and laughing . . . and loving.
We didn't actually have that much in common. Maybe that's why we sometimes seemed more like sisters than friends. We connected at a fundamental level, but diverged on much of the superficial. We effortlessly respected and supported each other regardless of our differences -- the way that family should.
There is an excruciating void in her home, in the world, in my life. Everywhere I look, I see her smile, I *feel* her smile, I hear her laughter. I try to cling to the memories of our happy times and to shake the sad and painful moments that were wrapped up in the dying process.
The morning after Tara passed away, my 5-year-old daughter Hannah woke up and the first thing she said was, "Mommy, I hope I have a fun life, even though Tara died." I told her I hoped so too, because that was what Tara wanted. More than anything, she wanted to live a happy, healthy long life. But if she couldn't, then she wanted her loved ones to keep living . . . and laughing . . . and loving.
