It was raining one day, and I had our dog, Maci, with me.
I don't go to Lahela's memorial site often. I don't feel her presence there. For me, I feel closest to Lahela in a sunrise, when I hear her favorite song, or when I see a smiley-face balloon. Those are the moments when something inside me feels connected to her.
Maybe that's simply my own preference. Or maybe, after all these years, a part of me is still in disbelief that this is my reality.
What bothered me about that rainy day wasn't the rain. It was the realization that I couldn't remember if Lahela liked rainy days.
I still don't remember.
September 10th will mark four years without my daughter.
Four years.
And I am beginning to forget the little things.
The minor details about her. The things that once seemed so insignificant that I never imagined I would one day be desperately trying to remember them.
That is a new kind of sadness I wasn't prepared for.
I do remember, however, how there were times when Lahela would ask me to bring Maci with us, even when dogs weren't allowed. Lahela had a rebellious spirit. The cemetery has a sign, plain as day, saying that pets are not permitted inside.
But on that rainy day, I decided that if Lahela had asked me to bring Maci before, then Maci needed to visit her.
It had been such a long time.
So, I brought Maci to Lahela.
Maybe it was against the rules.
But that day, it felt right.
And as I stood there in the rain with Maci beside me, I realized that sometimes honoring someone isn't about following every rule. Sometimes it's about remembering who they were-the little things, the rebellious things, the things that made them uniquely themselves.
I may not remember whether Lahela loved rainy days.
But I remember that she loved Maci.
And for that moment, that was enough.
