So. Here we go, starting yet another journal in a long line of journals incomplete. This time, I again declare, this time I will write diligently and honestly. And then I remember honesty is subjective at best, and decide diligence is sufficient.
My grandfather died on August 24. He was 92, and his last journal entry was about the death of his brother. "Time goes on, and we go with it," he wrote in his slowly-deteriorating hand. But it's nice to have those words written by him, to know his palm grazed a page; his mind composing phrases; that we have a record of his time on this earth.
The same can be said about my friend Cailey Renaud, who passed on August 30 at the age of 27 after battling breast cancer for over two-and-a-half years. Her blog is a beautiful, tangible way to remember how fervently she lived her abbreviated life. The videos make me smile. I can hear her and remember the comfortable way our friendship bumped along without a single argument or hiccup or fall out. Instead, the whole thing is one good memory, and her words dredge it up and surround me.
She said to me once, "Life is short, no matter how long you live." How very poignant for me, facing the death of two people I loved irreplaceably within a week of, but 65 years apart from, each other.
And so under those pretexts, I, Kayla--mother, wife, woman, sometimes adult, usually ridiculous--place pen to paper (and later fingers to keyboard) with resolve.
Life is short, no matter how long you live.
Time goes on, and we go with it.
I write.
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