This is harder than I thought it would be. Where do I even begin? Well, in 1998, I wrote a song for you to sing. It was already well established that you had a beautiful singing voice, so why not use your voice over my composition? That was the motivating factor behind the song entitled “Lullaby.” This was the last song I ever played for you as you took your last breath. Now, here’s where it gets difficult- very difficult is the emphasis this deserves. You bought me a book for Christmas by one of my favorite authors, entitled Lullaby. I clearly asked for the book and did my research on why the author wrote it. What I didn’t know was what the lullaby was or did, in the book. Am I being absurd, or did my lullaby do the same thing? Was it some form of musical kismet, or did you need to hear something passionate one last time before you let go? This hurts to write. It’s no wonder why you praised my memory all the time. If some emotions brought out through these simple words can invoke such powerful inner turmoil, imagine what else I am remembering at the exact same time. In all of this, I’ve lost track of tense and don’t know whether I’m writing to you in first-person or about you in past tense.
All this time I’ve called myself agnostic, because the belief that one being created everything sounds incredulous. What I can’t tell people is that even if there is no creator, I hope that there is something after this. I hope there is something after this because you deserve it- because I love you so much. For you to leave so much behind, only to discover that there is no such thing as an afterlife is unacceptable. You deserve to be with Joe. You deserve to see your mother again. You were a musician, an author, a graphic designer, a poet, a member of the miniatures guild, a great chef, a seamstress of the highest level, a dear friend, an outstanding mother, a wife like no other, a sister, a mother-in-law, a cousin, an aunt, a Mom-Mom, and you knew how to love. It would take the most callous person to write this without crying. Even after listing the aforementioned attributes, you were more than that.
For two weeks I spoke to you and cared for you in the comfort of my home. I still have one regret that I wish to share- you should have lived with me longer. While I couldn’t reverse your illness, you would have had a better level of comfort than what you had in your own home. You would have had company around the clock. What I can take away from this can be summarized into two parts. When you were healthy, we would talk to each other in the living room of your house until the twilight would reflect off of your glass door and diminish. No one in my life has ever been so interesting to be around, so much, that hours could pass without notice- that time was ours and I wish we could have had more. The second is everything else, so vast that the server hosting this would shut down. You were more than an inspiration- you were something that I have no word for and cannot describe. You were and will always be loved.
Wherever you are, remember the last words I said to you late that night. They were for you and you only.
Diane S. Kowalewski
September 19, 1952 – June 25, 2012