When I think of my mother, I can’t help but feel joyful. More and more, over the past few years I felt pulled to try to capture snippets of her silliness, of her warmth, as if I were trying to stockpile a reserve for myself, knowing that someday I would need them. Over the last 10 months, as I watched her suffering and pain grow denser and more insurmountable, I avoided looking at images of my mother that would remind me of a time before her cancer. I didn’t want to acknowledge the differences that were occurring, the ways in which she couldn’t be the person she was before as her body became increasingly uninhabitable. Now, two days after her passing, I find myself turning to these memories and I notice that through my own tears and heartache, I also feel thankful. At the very least, she’s been liberated from an existence that no longer allowed her to really live. And at the very best, she’s out there somewhere, on the next great adventure, the funniest and warmest and bravest person I’ve ever known, discovering the wonders of whatever comes next, and warming a space for me on the sofa next to her so she can show me everything she’s discovered when we meet again.