My last letter to you pried open the rusted-shut door that was holding hostage all the things I want to say to you. Since then, I have been talking to you in my head non-stop. Stories and memories of you and your cherished life.

I take long walks down Haytop Road—the one that runs behind our property? I like how it winds through the woods, but I usually take it all the way into town before I turn back. As I walk, I talk. In my head—to you.

Do you remember the summer your daddy and I took you to Niagara Falls? We were driving back from a family wedding in Michigan. You were seven. The celebrations had exhausted you, so you slept the entire five-hour drive from Lansing, your dark curls fanned out on the unicorn pillow that went everywhere with you back then.

For most of the day spent at the falls, we all wore a light coating of water droplets from the air that was saturated with vapor whipped up by the immense cascade. You laughed at what you called “Niagara glitter.” And you could not believe how immense was the sound of so much water falling.

You were fearless on the little boat, Maid of the Mist, that churned its way close to the bottom of the falls.

Your cheeks pink in the early fall air, your blue poncho drenched, you leaned against the railing, grinning. I knew you well by then, but the way you embraced the adventures of that day confirmed what I knew. Your capacity for joy, your curiosity, your expansive heart are gifts to the world and I have learned much from being mother to such a spirit as you.

I will look for the photos we took that day and upload them here for us.

I already know what memory I want to share with you next. I wonder if you even remember it? Brave 15-month-old you, fighting pneumonia—I’m getting chills just thinking about it.

All my love, Momma