February 11

I feel numb.

I know some people prefer numbness to pain, but not me. I'm an emotional person, and I often think that I feel more acutely than most: I cry more, yes, but I think I also laugh more when I'm really happy, so it's unsettling to not feel. And on this day in particular, I like to feel and to remember and to relive, because only by rehashing that kind of pain --by walking through the pitch-blackness of that valley-- can I fully realize how far I've come since that heartbreaker of a day six years ago. But this anniversary was somehow different. I feel numb.

It was, in many ways, a February 11 much like those we've experienced in the past, with blood donations for the grown ups and spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. There were text messages and notes from friends, and quiet moments of looking up at the occasionally blue sky and remarking over how it was kinda-sorta a Logan kind of day. And there was the visit to the cemetary, where we all said a prayer and, together, released a single blue balloon to the heavens.

But it was a different kind of day, too, because my cousin Elena passed away. She'd been battling stage four cancer since late last summer. I knew things had gotten bad, but was still stunned by the news. I think I still don't really know what to do with it.

But, even in my current strange, emotionally vacuous state, I think one thing is true: although I'm not sure Elena and Logan ever met, I think they were kindred spirits. They were both optimistic and cheerful, even when their circumstances might have dictated a different brand of response. They were programmed to be positive and to look for the good, regardless of the challenges that appeared to lay ahead. They were lights --bright, beaming lights-- in a world that often seems woefully drab and dark. Although the thought of them sharing a dance or a smile or a joke on their now-shared arrival date in the next life gives me a quiet sense of satisfaction, the truth that they've both departed this life --one exactly six years after the other-- is a lot to take in.

I've struggled to write this entry so I'm now struggling to close it out, if only because I'm not entirely sure of what I want to say. So I'll go with this: although I'm not feeling much right now, I'm thankful that I am usually a ball of emotion, because it makes me wonderfully human. I cry hard and push hard for what I want, but I also love hard and work hard and play hard. And if you're fortunate enough to have me choose you as a friend, you'll experience a lot of crazy, but you'll always and forever have me in your corner. Beyond the seemingly unending hustle and bustle and nonsense of this life that strives to keep us all overcommitted and overly busy, love is not only what remains, but it's what matters. It's the only thing that matters.

Love you, Logan. And Godspeed, E. Thanks to both of you for reminding me of that important truth.