Forty years ago today, my only daughter died at the age of seven. She lay in her coffin in a pink smocked party dress and a wrist corsage sent by a friend of ours.

Our family of four had only 3 years to be “normal.” After that it was all a game of Pretend. We had to pretend that we were coping with the loss.

We died to our individuality on some level. The loss left us scarred and scared. How could it be otherwise?

I was 35 and our son was 10.

There was nothing left to do but keep on keeping on.

There was profound grief, social alienation and a sense of apathy that weighed tons. Nothing mattered.

Through it all, I kept up a social front that did no one any good. But trust me, it can be no other way.

The damage was done and could not be undone.

Her Bluebird Troop sent a basket of flowers. I placed them by her dollhouse and just stared at it.

May I speak of power now in regard to loss? Would you be interested?

The power I pulled to myself in order to survive has stayed with me and I put it to good use.

It pours into my writing, does it not? If it doesn’t, it should.

This is the power of the resurrection channeled through a keyboard.

The keyboard won’t quit forming words about the difficulty of dying to the idea of perfection.

I so wanted my life to be perfect.

Now I was left with an imperfect life and so much grief it rolled off of me, generating hydroelectric power.

All I could do was witness the words as they unfurled.

“Do not stand at my grave and weep.”

And so I write on.

Vicki Woodyard

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