Bright said, "Who will take care of MoMo?"
"MoMo will be fine, honey. She's got Aunt KK and Uncle Philip."
Bright said, "Can a phone call reach all the way to Heaven?"
"No, honey," I said, beginning to cry again.
"I wish I were in space," Bright said, "flying through the stars, to Heaven."
Zion doesn't understand. Three-year-olds are like dogs, they know something is wrong, but they're not sure what, so they go around kissing everyone in the room.
Daniel and I are quiet. We tell stories and cry. We wonder at being on the other side of the world at this time, on this day, of all days. We are grateful for the summer memories we just made with her. We are grateful that we had no unresolved conflicts with her. We ache from the blow of this thing called death.
The thing is, we hadn't yet had enough of her. What will we do with all of her paintings and perfume bottles and costume jewelery? Who will lay with Bright on her bed and watch Oswald? Who will call me "Sugar"? Who will make the cornbread dressing on Thanksgiving? How will we ever get along, for the rest of our lives, without Sue Sue?
Then, like cool water on a burn, I think about what a great day this is for Sue Sue. Everything that she read about every day of her life is right before her eyes. She ran a good race and crossed the finished line, with her lipstick on and her hair teased out, no doubt, and that is what I will choose to see in my head. Well done, Sue Sue. Goodbye. I love you. G0D knows how much I love you. G0D knows how much I will miss you. I will see you when I get there.
