A year later

Somewhere in the midst of my mile-a-minute mind, there is a story half-written about how music changed my life.
It started with a concert. In the middle, there was the injection of a little joy and passion into an otherwise bland day-to-day life. In the end, there was turning around at the right time in an encore to accidentally meet a pair of blue eyes.

Near the beginning, there was also Sarah.

The petty details are that we met on a music forum, where her, I, Surfergrrl and others formed a close-knit group, serving as one another secret support network in our busy lives. We emailed one another many times a week for over a year, focusing on the most emotional to the most mundane. We spoke concretely of summer road trips and festivals together.

The important details are what made her shine. She was feisty like you wouldn't believe, standing up for us as vehemently as anyone, despite being hundreds of miles. She loved and cared more fiercely than anyone I knew, and was amazingly driven-- none of this more evident by the fact that she was an equine massage therapist, healing race and police horses through the power of touch, putting her passion into caring for animals like she did for those around her. She was hysterical, making me crack up by her descriptions of mishaps and how she negotiated interactions with crazy neighbours and stereotypical brother-in-laws. She was madly in love. She was just beginning her life.

A year ago tomorrow, I received an email from her husband.
I need to let you guys know that Sarah passed away on Tuesday morning. My beautiful wife, your wonderful friend, died in her sleep Monday night.

And that was it. Somehow, at 34 years old, someone so full of life was taken away in her sleep.

Despite being one of the most genuine and supportive people in my life, I was never even able to hug her once.

And even though I felt like I couldn't breathe, I couldn't figure out how to mourn.

Grief feels as though it needs expression, as though you need to shout how goddamn unfair it all is. But yet I didn't know how to express any of this to those around me, because I could already feel them judging me in advance, judging my grief as nonsensical for being based on a person I never even touched. I keep these online relationships private. I tried mentioning it to a friend, but she automatically assumed that since she had never heard me speak of Sarah before, she was just a casual acquaintance. Deadlines were knocking at my door, and I didn't want to have outline what had happened to professors and supervisors.

I didn't want to have to justify my sorrow.

And now, a year later, I still don't feel like I've properly grieved.

Yet, she deserves to be mourned-- this I know.

Which might be why I still feel my throat tightening and the tears pressing up against the back of my eyes as I write this.