13 months

Some days I talk to the sky... because that's where you are now. Not a day goes by without thinking of you." Yesterday marked 13 months since Sana left us. A number. Just a number. It doesn't hold any power over the ache I carry. Time has moved forward, the seasons have changed, and yet for us—for those who loved her—it feels as though everything is standing still. The world continues its rhythm, but mine stutters at the thought of her. This week, we received a package. Inside it was a painting Sana had done at a “sip and paint” event at her school in Tribeca—a Japanese garden, delicate and serene. I don’t know why it caught me off guard. Maybe because I had forgotten, or maybe because I had never fully seen this side of her. Sana loved art. She found joy in creating but often brushed it off, saying she wasn’t “good enough.” I always told her she was. And today, that quote found its way to me. It felt like a whisper from her. Because I do talk to the sky. In moments of stillness—in the car, on walks, through windows—I look up, and it feels like I’m reaching for her. There’s something about the sky that makes grief a little quieter. Maybe because it’s the one place that feels vast enough to hold the weight of missing her. She was so much more than she believed herself to be. Sensitive. Kind. Creative. Funny. Gentle. Brave. I wish she could see herself the way we see her now. I wish I had told her more often how her talents mattered, how her presence lit up a room, how her pain didn’t define her. Thirteen months. And still, every day is lived with her memory tucked inside me. A song. A coffee. A color. A quote. A sky. I see her everywhere. And so I talk to the sky, not just because that’s where she is now, but because that’s where I feel closest to her.