Her name was Joyce and my grandpa often called me by her name after she passed away. The pain of losing your only daughter, your oldest child, I never considered until I was a mother; must have been devastating to Grandpa. I looked like Joyce, so it made sense I guess that he would often call me by her name.
To me she was beautiful and she spent many hours putting on makeup and styling her hair to get everything “just right”. I would watch every minute in amazement; she was a master at it.
She had many girlfriends and talked on the telephone for hours on end with each one. Laughing hysterically was typical during her conversations. I guess she and I have that in common; the desire for cherished girlfriends and the laughing. Always laughing, it’s the best medicine.
She had been married and divorced two times by the time she passed away at age 26 from a fatal car accident. I heard something about a man that was drunk hitting her. Her girlfriend in the car walked away unscathed.
She left behind her family, a word that would haunt me all my life, family. My brother and I, her father, two half brothers and her grandmother; whom we called Nanny, as well as the man that was all set to become husband number three.
She was an artist; I found out later while searching through her secret belongings in the cedar chest up in the attic. Fine sketches in pencil or charcoal of ancient women, with satin draped across them as they lay on the delicate yellowed paper, looking off in the distance. She was good at it too. She was creative and we made homemade Christmas ornaments together and set up the detailed train city under the tree, each year.
The memories are many for a woman that lived such a short life. As each day drifts into the next I miss her and wish she was still here. What would she be like…what would our relationship look like? I don’t really know if it’s her I miss or my fantasy of what it would have been like, had she not died and left behind this five year old little girl.