Turning the corner of her narrow lane, we spied her stone standing tall and narrow. Before I could voice it, Jake said, "She stands out." I smiled my agreement. She does. She always did.
It's been close to a month since the car accident, and we've been a reluctant one car family- car pooling and begging rides from family friends to the necessary destinations of life: work, grocery store, coffee shop, and home. Once I had no access to the cemetery, I found myself wanting to go there all the time. Do you always want what you can't have, too? Or is it just me?
So today, with a whopping 16 miles on the odometer, Jake and I, in our zippy new blue car, made a beeline for our girl.
For the first time I can remember in a long time, I wasn't furious when I drove away. I was thankful, instead. Jake and I tried to fight our tears by trading things we thought Cory might be happy about.
I said she was probably happy to have no voices. Jake said she must be happy to not be afraid anymore. I mentioned she didn't have to go to the hospital anymore, and Jake said she didn't have to take any meds. That's as far as we could get before giving over to our own selfish woes of living in a Cory-less world. It sucks.
No one but Jake and I could ever understand just how much we miss that girl.
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