Yesterday was the ninth anniversary of my 24-year old daughter Francesca's death. Yesterday was a beautiful day. The sun was bright, the air clear, the weather crisp. My husband Bill and I hiked to the top of Lookout Mountain where we ate a picnic lunch. Back home, I walked our wild labyrinth, then sat on the big cedar swing where she and I sat the last time I saw her. The swing is next to the place where we buried her ashes -- a gorgeous spot on the other side of our footbridge and overlooking Lake Superior. Yesterday was a good day, but the day before, the ninth anniversary of the day she was supposed to have arrived home, was harder. The same weightiness that troubled me that day bound me in an inner darkness. I haven't felt that dullness for years and was surprised at its reappearance. All one can do in such instances is enter into the silence.
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