A Year Ago Today

A year ago today, I was sitting around Danielle Montiel’s bed witnessing her breathe her last breath. Friends sitting, standing around the room. Alicia wiping her mouth. Her dad sitting near her head in his chair, walker on the side. Mynor holding her left hand, sitting on her left hip. Matteo, their nine year old son, in Mynor’s lap. Juliette, their daughter, sitting nearby, possibly on the closest chair. Sophia, their oldest at twelve, sitting at his feet, next to mine. I held on to her left foot. Holding it as I had done so many times that year, 2017, only then it was much much warmer than that Saturday morning. It had had life, vibrancy.

12:38 I think Mynor said it was. The time of death. The time her body passed from this world. Today, 12:38. I looked at my iPhone at exactly that time. I remember because we were looking to see how much time before we needed to get to the nearby theater, the Pantages – 22 minutes. Wicked was showing. She would’ve loved it and taken her whole family this time around. This year, Sophia has joined us for a couple events. Us, honoring her dad as a single parent who loves good things for his children and is outnumbered by two. Us, enjoying Sophia and knowing her mom and grandmother have instilled so much love of music – we love having her with us – honoring Danielle.

The most poignant moments of missing her this year feel so small compared to the huge gapping hole left in her family. Heck, holes left in the community. When you have over 800 people at your funeral there are a lot of holes in the whole. But for me, and my relationship with Danielle, I missed our weekly sessions of moving energy through her body and listening together. Few words were spoken in those times but just being together gave me a quiet I hadn’t realized I’d gained until we were absent from one another. I missed her at Easter in the park with her parents and Mynor’s extended family, including the Porters who were our ticket to an invite to this festive affair. Danielle would’ve showed up with her huge, joyous smile (she loved people getting together) and would’ve brought some amazing wine, cheese, and crackers, along with some other dish thrown together with whatever was in her frig. She likely would’ve also had some fun game that she just pulled out of the back of her car (waiting for the perfect moment to use it). She and I would’ve caught up as we didn’t always see one another regularly so we liked these family get togethers to do so.

I missed her when I heard about Sophia’s 13 year old mother/daughter trip with a group that has been meeting for years. Aunt Alicia stepped in but grief was there when it was a right of passage meant for celebration and joy.

I missed her on our community camping trip. She would’ve scouted out the nearest hikes and we would’ve gone. I could always count on her to help me plan these trips. She was my unspoken partner. My rock steady nature friend who interviewed the rangers and got the kids involved in the young ranger programs where ever we camped. I’d picked this year’s camping spot in August 2017 (one must book a year in advance) with her in mind – a perfect fishing site – hoping she would again be the master fisherwoman as she was at Rancheria Campground in 2016. I missed her at random dinners or playdates with her family. I missed her ease, her love, her gratitude for good things, and her friendship – not just mine but how she loved people I loved too. We were all so much greater with her around.

I’m left feeling so much more than sadness. Still disappointment with the limitations of medicine and God with His lack of intervention. I wanted her to be the woman who touched the hem of Jesus’ robe and was healed. Instead, she was one of the crowd left behind as Jesus left to go with the disciples on the water – away from the land, the masses. Away from the unhealed. I’m still angry at His leaving us with premature death. Songs that Jesus has overcome the grave sit hollow inside. I’m human after all. Short-sighted in my desires for immediate relationship, I could care little for heaven when I see her family’s sorrow. How I ache for relief over the loss of one’s mother. Yet, little by little, they, we, us, are finding our way. Filling gaps. Being better people because she made us better.

We Miss You, Danielle.

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