Image: Dark red beeswax candle on a sandy beach at sunset.

At 92, you lasted longer in life than your parents and elder sister did.

At 29, your parents and elder sister are adjusting to the impossible idea of lasting in life without you.

At 92, your final view was a highly medicalized hospital room with controlled temperatures, limited seating and recirculated air. You were not lucid. You were non-responsive and struggling. You couldn’t hold many loved ones’ hands, including mine at a considerable distance.

At 29, your final view was a magnificent summer sunset at your happy place with a warm, fresh breeze through the willow tree and plenty of seating for each of us. You were mostly lucid, interactive and struggling. You held many of your loved ones’ hands, including mine there in person.

At 92, your body was failing rapidly and the priest came to your bedside. You were ready to die at your faith’s pace using comforting medication and minimal oxygen while your exhausted, heartbroken children rotated through three dutiful days as your bedside sentries. Their minds likely shared a single question: when is this going to end?

At 29, your body was failing rapidly and the end of life doula came to your bedside. You were ready to die on your chosen date and time using life-ending medication and your own breath while more than a dozen exhausted, heartbroken family members and close friends spent a magical, bittersweet day sharing memories, laughter and tears with you. Your Mom braided your hair one last time and your Dad laid in bed with you as you reminisced over old photos together. Our minds shared a single thought: there is never going to be enough time.

On your way to 92, you cared for me many times when my mother was unwell and not working. I was too young to remember most of it and there are no photographs of those occasions. You lived through nine decades of education, working, marriage, parenting, grandparenting and travelling. You had a full spectrum of experiences and no plans or projects remaining. There is so much I wish I could ask you about your youngest sister.

On your way to 29, I cared for you many times when your mother was unwell and when she was working. I hold dearly so much of what I remember of those interactions and I have many photographs of those occasions. You had one month of marriage and limited travelling with your truest love. Parenting, grandparenting and finishing your post-secondary education were stolen from you. Your brilliant career would have made such a positive impact on others in need. You seized as many experiences as you could during your three decades while leaving many plans and projects unfinished. There is so much I wish I could ask you about being a younger sister.

Before 92, you inspired me to start a business.

Before 29, you inspired me to start writing.

These inspirations are now intertwined for me.

Thank you, both.

At 92, your parents, husband, elder sister and lifelong friends are waiting for you on the other side. One week after your departure, those who remain gathered in a church for a formal ceremony, surrounded by symbols of worship. The morning sun shone brightly through one of the stained glass windows high above us while your granddaughter sang your favourite hymn. Your loved ones read their own reflections and chosen words from a holy text before you were lowered into the ground next to your husband. Your bespoke blue steel casket was adorned with pink roses and white hydrangeas. In a moment of imperfection that would have made you laugh, the frame holding your pristine casket jammed on its way into the ground and only two of us noticed during the solemn silence.

At 29, your parents, husband, elder sister and lifelong friends are devastated and continuing to fight for justice on this side. Three months after your departure, those who remain gathered in your common room for a humanist celebration of life. We were surrounded by your handcrafted art and an incredible photo montage of great times with everyone who loves you. The afternoon was rainy and cool while the room filled with the genuine warmth of blended communities. Your loved ones read their own reflections and shared memories that bubbled spontaneously to the surface before you were returned to the trees, water and birds. In a moment of perfection that would have made you cry, your beloved service dog ran across the room to comfort your brother-in-law and all of us noticed during our open, interactive expressions of grief.

I am forever influenced by each of you: by the ways you lived and the ways you departed within hours of each other, having never met. I am so grateful to have known each of you and to love you dearly. I am the only common thread between your distinct journeys and I will miss you both, well beyond 92 and 29.

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Image: empty canoe with oars docked on a tree-lined lake.

In your passing, a long list of nevers and forevers have suddenly surfaced.

Your children are changed. Forever.

Your children will never see you laugh, smile or cry again. They will never hear you call their names again. They will never feel your hugs again.

They will never see you grinning and cheering when they graduate from school, go out on their first dates or win a medal in sports. They will never share another meal or movie with you. Never share another craft, book or song with you. Never spend another birthday, Christmas or summer holiday with you ever again.

They will never finish another round of homework with you, learn how to drive with you or ask for your advice about a promotion at work. They will never get to share their own partners, children and pets with you, if they choose to have them.

They will never whisper their secrets to you again. Never share their fears, hopes and frustrations with you again. Never describe their wishes, dreams and aspirations to you again.

Among their friends and classmates, they will forever be the ones who lost their Mom at a young age.

They will never be separated from this injustice, this longing, this loss.

They will never have the innocence of believing in forever because you were taken from them so early in their precious lives. You were there from their miraculous first heartbeats, their first breaths, their first words and first steps and now you are no longer.

Despite all of this, they will keep fucking going...

Image: inside of a silver bracelet engraved with the words “keep fucking going…” on blue fabric background.

Your partner and best friend is changed. Forever.

Your partner will never see you laugh, smile or cry again—not directly, only in the faces of your beautiful children. He will never hear you call his name again. He will never feel your touch again.

He will never travel with you again. He will never cook for you, garden with you or go fishing with you again. Never share another meal or movie with you. Never spend another birthday, Christmas or summer holiday with you ever again.

He will never be able to ask for your advice about the children or their schooling or your successful business again. He will never celebrate your children’s weddings with you, if they choose to get married. He will never share the joy of his grandchildren with you, if he becomes a grandfather.

He will never whisper his secrets to you again. Never share his fears, hopes and frustrations with you again. Never describe his wishes, dreams and aspirations to you again.

Among his friends, co-workers and clients, he will forever be the one who lost his partner at a young age.

He will never be separated from this injustice, this longing, this loss.

He will never be able to convince himself or your children to believe in forever because you were taken from them so early in their precious lives. You were there from his first date with you, your first and final homes together, your wedding, children and business together and now you are no longer.

Despite all of this, he will keep fucking going...

Your immediate and extended family, friends, neighbours and colleagues are individually and collectively changed. Forever.

We will never see you laugh, smile or cry again—not directly, only in the faces of your beautiful children. We will never hear you call our names again. We will never receive your hugs again. We will never see your texts and photos again. We will never be able to laugh with you, share a drink with you, sing and dance with you or travel with you.

We will never be able to ask for your perspective on our relationships, health or jobs. Never share our fears, hopes and frustrations with you. Never share another meal or movie with you. Never spend another birthday, Christmas or summer holiday with you ever again.

Among the remaining family members, friends, neighbours and colleagues, we will forever be the ones who lost you at your young age.

We will never be separated from this injustice, this longing, this loss.

We may look differently at forever because you didn’t get the forever you fought for and deserved. We will never be able to convince your partner or your children to believe in forever because you were taken from them so early in their precious lives. You were there for all our milestones, victories and difficulties and now you are no longer.

This permanence is the mindfuckery of grief and loss: the vast and unfathomable list of nevers and forevers, the inescapable truths we will all wrestle with for the rest of our days.

Despite all of this, we will keep fucking going...

And all of us—your children, your partner, the rest of us—share one last pair of absolutes about you:

Never forgotten.

Forever in our hearts.

This song seems to be a fitting accompaniment for this particular loss:

You Are in Love (Taylor’s Version)