She is dead. She is gone. No amount of wishing, dreaming, hoping, pretending will bring her back. For 13 years I was secretly keeping bits of her alive. If I could just take care of those, nurture them enough, be responsible enough, I would keep her here with me. But she slowly slipped away, seeped through my fingers, until I finally understood that my imagined task to keep her with me was impossible. She is dead. She is gone. And she isn’t coming back. It’s not my fault. It’s not my choice. But it is true. I kept her alive. Her body, the part everyone could see, died long ago. When it was time for that to happen I was brave. I was accepting. I sat with her, with my family, as we watched her go. We grieved her death and our lives moved on. But secretly, I kept her alive. I wore her sweaters. I walked in her shoes. I displayed her frog. I kept her jewelry...