Her words were never heard

they were never spoken.

She created her own language

through her eyes, her vibrant sapphire eyes.

We grew up together, her and I...

and yet she never really grew up,

she couldn't.

She never wrote her name,

she never learned to read.

But she would laugh

and smile

when music was played.

Open heart surgery took away her mind

her mobility

at three years old

and yet...

she always clearly recognized those who loved her.

It was a warm evening in September

her 24th year

when the four of us stood by her bedside.

Renal failure.

Grief shot through me...

my hands shook as I held the phone.

I wondered about the man on the other end of the line.

Hospice care,

how could he stomach phone calls like mine?

We watched

and we cried

as her gentle spirit left

and her fragile body remained.

In the movies

you occasionally see someone close the eyes of the deceased

and yet when I tried

her eyes wouldn't close.

Her peaceful gaze

I will never forget.

Three weeks passed.

The four of us set our sails

and we drifted into the kelp beds of the San Diego bay.

We anchored

silence within the cabin.

The soft wind ruffled the sails

as the urn was opened.

Ivory ashes fell into the water

as I recorded the subtle ceremony.

We thought our eyes were deceiving us

her spirit alive once more

as a piece of kelp came into the ashes,

that formed the letter "J."

Jordan told us that day

to not worry, that she is okay.

And that changed me.

So much so

that I live my life now as she would want me to

happy,

hungry for knowledge and adventure,

accepting of the inevitable.

Because being alive is truly awesome.