A Day, A Year, A Life

Today is the first anniversary of Ingrid's death. Maybe, like a lot of new things, it takes some getting used to. Because I'm not used to it yet no matter how much acceptance I want to cultivate.

Ingrid... who can think of her and fail to smile, to hear her laughter, to remember her warmth? Surely she was one of the funniest people on the planet. She could make you hoot and holler at the stupidest stuff, things no one else could raise a chuckle for. For crying out loud, I don't even have to remember her older than 17 or so to smile. I'm still laughing about the S&Ms and the gorilla socks and the nights making out under the stars and a thousand other juvenile, teenage things. And that was just the girl. The woman was even more amazing. Was there anyone more committed to laughter and love?

How can it be one year that she is gone? How can it even be one day, damn it? How? Bring her back, make it untrue, stop screwing around, God. This is how it feels today. And this is how it feels every day, in the little corners where you keep the things you know aren't true.

So it's a mixed bag, at best. Acceptance, grief, humor, love. In the end, maybe that's what gets us through the night and the day and the one year and all the rest. I hope so, because I miss you, Ingrid Joy Wilhite, with a fierceness and rage that I cannot shake. And I feel you with a warmth and love that I cannot deny.

I miss you, Ingrid. I miss you. I miss you.

--Caren Crockett