And what the dead had no speech for, when living,
They can tell you, being dead: the communication
Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.
Eliot, Four Quartets, Little Gidding.

Maybe now it'll get easier. Nothing's left unsaid.

She would have been eighty-six, last Friday. I spent it sleep deprived and surrounded by friends, but sadness is patient.

It's her birthday that gets me. I never can remember the day she died. Don't much want to either.

( never knew her like this but it's what I remember )