We kept her alive maybe longer than we should have. The four of us.

But those extra years were bonus years. Even when she didn’t know us.

She lost her inhibitions and became so funny. So raw. So real.

Sometimes in sad, painful ways—she would hold a small picture of my father close to her chest and weep.

But mostly in hilarious ways that belied the extreme challenges she had faced in her lifetime.

We began writing down the things she said the way we wrote down our children’s little sayings.

We recognized complexities and nuances in her that had long been repressed.

And that was OK.

Life is full of forces and people seeking to repress you. Marginalize you. Silence you. Shame you. Make you feel you did everything wrong.

She had a fierce inner strength that would not be erased. She fully occupied whatever space she was in. She always found ways to be heard.

In the end we gave her back her voice.

Her own voice.

A voice of doubt and questioning.

A voice of fear and pain.

A voice of hope.

A voice of forgiveness.

A voice of love.

In the end we got the chance to tell her she was enough. Had always been enough. Would always be enough.

I’d live it that way all over again.