Wandering Along the Path: Right Speech

I'm writing a little daily about my older daughter. I realize I am really only writing my story, because hers is ultimately unknowable to me. I can tell I'm partially writing out of guilt, as if something I might have done could have altered her trajectory towards breast cancer. I just finished the book she gave me about time travel, and several characters in it attempt to alter history. One wants to prevent John Lennon from being shot. Another wants to warn his girlfriend so she will not be attacked at a rock concert. I understand how futile this thinking is, but it seems to be part of my grief journey. When I'm writing, I know I am not inside her head, not one little bit. She's a mystery. I believe every thought I might imagine plus many more were stirring around. But I do have a felt sense of her anger and judgement and love and desire. She was so fully human and alive and passionate. I know I had a hand in her love of nature, art, literature and teaching. I took her to work on Take Your Daughter to Work day. I forced her and her friend to help me at the women's shelter. We trudged as a family to protest nuclear power plants, war, politics and women's issues. I laid a foundation for part of her life's passions. But this piece I'm writing is really about what I don't know, and never will. it's about love and loss.