December 31, 2016

We were going to have a party.

It was going to be for you.

You didn't know about our plans. 

We were going to rent a space. And invite your friends to help. 

We were going to ask everyone to wear something sparkly. Something with sequins or glitter. But nothing pink. We're done with pink. 

We were going to have food. Probably pizza and salads, because that's what you've liked best this year. And we were going to have mocktails. Something fizzy, and pretty, without the booze that might hurt your fragile liver. 

We were going to have a party, and it was going to be tonight.

We weren't going to tell you. Let it be a surprise. One year ago you stayed with me, on an air mattress, in my new home in Kansas City after helping me to move. You were sick, and I stayed up all night listening to your cough and praying it didn't mean what I thought it meant. And the next day, on January 1, you got onto a train that took you straight to the emergency room, and told us the news that verified what we knew and had prayed against. 

So it would only be appropriate that after this year, this hard year, this beautiful year, that you be celebrated. You, for your bravery, and your strength, and your smile that didn't cease - even when it should have. 

We were going to have a party. Like all those you threw for us. With matching decorations and a theme of glitter. 

And so we're going to have a party. And we're going to toast to you. For your bravery. And your strength. And your smile that still didn't cease as you left us to go home. We wish that you could be here, and know that you will be, but differently.

We are going to have a party. It's going to be for you.