A year ago, I did not come here and write anything. In fact, I don't think I did much for my mother's memory besides think of her. Today, after three surprisingly quick years since my mama's death, I wanted to take a moment to say hello. Mama, Today I thought of you. When people asked me for the date as they filled out transaction tickets and checks at the credit union teller window, I thought of you. I was even scared I might accidentally share the secret date I had bundled under my arm this morning leaving the house. Considering how long it's been since you left, I haven't really told very many people. Some people needed to know and a few people I wanted to share this part of me with them. I still feel like I give up a small part of myself, a revelation of sorts and raw vulnerability when I share your death. I expect looks of sadness, shock, and I'm scared they will pity me. I worry that they will feel bad for me, wonder what it would be like, and then awkwardly step around that feeling because they don't really want to know. But these are things I'm still dealing with. On the mental level, I know not everybody who knows my story needs to make me uncomfortable in their knowledge. We make death out to be this horrifically awkward interruption to life, something to dance around with euphemisms and apologies. No matter; I am determined to know life and death as players on even footing. Both integral to our presence in this universe. Tonight, I celebrated you. I went to a contra dance and danced my heart out. Your infectious love for movement, music, and nature showed me how to smile when I look into a stranger's eyes, let my body release to the rhythm, and feel small under the stars. These are my tools for healing. No matter if the hurt comes from acute events or slow-working monotony, I know how to bounce back because I know what brings me back to the present. Love, Clara June