Okay, Gyspy, here it is...

The day I wrote this was Mother’s Day 2006.

I watched my friend Karen with her two-year-old daughter walking down to the garden at the bottom end of our property.
They were walking hand in hand, little Trinda with her plastic blue shovel, ready to help mommy. It is planting day, and there is much lawn work to be done as well.
I have often had moments when I miss what could have been with my own daughter. But usually, they are on her birthday and the anniversary of her death.
Today is the first Mother's Day when I have missed her so keenly. Is that strange? To not have missed her on Mother's Day prior to this year? I guess having my sons here and healthy has always filled that void.
Today, I watched as my eldest son, who is 16, hold the hand of Karen's son Brandon, four, and walk with him to the riding mower to get started on the grass. My heart swelled with pride and love as he carefully placed Brandon in front of him on the seat so he could give him a ride. My youngest boy, 13, is in the garden, helping with planting. He, too, makes me burst with love. They are truly the lights of my life.
Yet I so miss my daughter.
She was so determined to live. She outlasted all of the doctors' predictions for life expectancy. But her sweet little heart just was not strong enough. She died in my arms, nestled against my heart.
I have rare moments of deep despair when I wonder if somehow it was my fault she was so sick. I know that is not the case. I have studied all the genetic research I could find about her condition, and I know it was just the luck of the draw.
Nothing I did could have caused or changed anything. And what it all comes down to is how blessed I was to have her in my life at all.
But I wonder what she would have looked like, had she been healthy enough to stay. She would be 10 years old now, 11 this July. Would she look like me? Would she have had blond hair or red by now? Her eyes were an amazing blue.
Perhaps that is why I love so intensely. The knowledge that we can lose those we care about so quickly makes me afraid to not love them while I can. I think that was her gift to me. Arlyann. Her name was Arlyann, after my best friend, whose own little girl is now one, and an absolute delight.
I am not sure what message I am attempting to convey this sunny, peaceful day. Perhaps it is just as simple as never be afraid to tell those you care about how you really feel, never miss an opportunity to spend time with them, always live each day to the fullest. A message perhaps directed inward as well as outward.
Never be afraid to love, or to change, or to not change.
My dearest David (Bouchard) wrote to me the other day when I told him I felt my path in life was not longer as clear as it once was, with our children getting older and my focus on working with youth taking a larger role that I originally planned it to.
He said, “My old friend, let your teacher guide you. Your heart is your compass. She is there, watching over you, telling you the right decisions.”
Best go. The sunshine calls me, the earth in my flowerpots and little garden near my deck begs to be turned and worked with my bare hands. I will sink my fingers in and feel the promise of life, the energy of the earth and all her power. I will honour the memory of my daughter by loving my sons, and the few tears I will allow will be mine to cherish alone.