The light is leaving, and I do the same.

It’s not the darkness; I don’t fear the dark.

It’s the emptiness, the lack of light, the loss of hope, the nothingness.

My eyelids close, and even behind them there is a pinkness, a slight light indicating that when they open, everything will be as it was before I closed them.

There is a pink hope of tomorrow.

If I remain, the light will leave and I will see that emptiness, that loss of light I don’t want to see.

So I work.

I work, and work, and work until the day comes when the light leaves. I can’t stay and watch the light go. It hurts too much.

Even at night, my favorite times of the month are full moons, brightly lighting the dark, filling it with light from the other side. I bask in the light of the full moon and recharge the wondrous light within me.

I’m not afraid of the dark.

I’m not afraid of death.

I just love so deeply, I cannot take the pain of emptiness, or nothingness, of what once was before me no longer there.

Once I had a dog, my sidekick, my best friend, a Dane-Doberman cross, Bruno. If I sat on my tailgate crying, he did silly tricks to make me laugh. He bounded through the tall grasses beneath the moonlight. Jump! Jump! Now you see me, now you don’t.

If I didn’t laugh at his antics in the night, he would position himself on the tailgate beside me, press into my arm, his head towering above mine, until I wrapped him in a hug. He was my best friend.

He died.

A tumor in his mouth prevented him from eating. I was in college. I couldn’t afford surgery. I couldn’t afford special treatments and food.

I couldn’t afford to lose my best friend.

There was no help, and the Vet suggested I put him down.

“Do you want to stay with him? He’s in the kennel. You can go in. There’s room to sit,” the lovely assistant offered with outstretched box of tissue.

The pain was already unbearable. The salty flow blurred my vision. My best friend was dying of cancer. My best friend. His eyes would close and that pink light of hope for tomorrow--when I would return from college and we would go to his favorite lake to play fetch, to jump in the water, to chase the birds as rays of light danced over the ripples--would be gone.

The light would leave his life and I would be empty of it, alone with nothing. I could not watch the light leave. I already hurt too much. I could not break down in public the way I would if I sat with him, his light slipping away. Though I’m sure these kind people had seen breakdowns of the sort numerous times, I was taught not to show my emotions in public, not to cry, not to have the kind of breakdown the death of my best friend would induce.

I was taught to be strong.

Work. School. Work, run from emptiness, run to the lake and fling the collar into it’s depths where my best friend could play forever in his happy place.

Run.

Pink hope clouds my nothingness as memories flood my thoughts.

I am sixteen; she is fourteen.

We were best friends from the time she was born. We loved each other like no other loves we’d had. We were so close we were like one person. We fought and forgot. We learned jealousy and forgiveness. We were more than like sisters; we were sisters.

We played in the sun, danced in the moonlight, hid in the closet from our alcoholic father. We watched our mother be strong in the face of abuse. We watched her hold tight to her failing marriage. We watched her stand up for herself...

But only once in our lives did we see her cry, and that in anger.

Maybe twice.

She never cried when the light left, when the pink hope was gone. She stood up to emptiness, nothingness. She defied emotion, failure.

Mother taught us strength.

We grew strong, we rebelled, we lived. We smoked, we drank, we took part time jobs, we lost our virginity, our innocence. We became women. Women who married, had children, divorced, remarried, worked, stood up for family... worked, worked, worked.

Mother didn’t even cry in front of us when her husband chose another woman with a ready-made family he loved more than his own. She didn’t cry when diabetes stole the light of her oldest granddaughter at the tender age of 20. I never saw her cry over the loss, not before, during or after the funeral.

How strong must a woman be, Mom?

How strong must I be?

I was not there when the emptiness crept into her light, stole it away. My lids were full of pink hope before I awakened to ready myself for work where the call came that the third time in an ambulance was not a charm for my birthday twin, my oldest niece, and I fell apart in public, in the principal’s office with my daughter’s fourth grade class lined up in the hallway behind my quivering shoulders--my mother on the other end of the line, voice trembling as she demanded, “Do you want me to come and pick you two up?” a tear never breaking her voice, blurring her vision, her reminder for me to be strong.

No.

No, I can drive.

I can get my baby and drive to my sister, to my mom’s house, run, run, run to my family.

I ran so far that eleven months later my sister lay in the hospital, her light leaving as cancer ate her body, bloating her belly, making her moan in pain, Mother stroking her hair at one side, my recent brother-in-law holding her hand, wiping his tears, at her other side.

The cracks in my heart expanded, and I closed my eyes to pink hope.

We said goodbye in a private room.

Her family ushered in one by one, my daughter, her daughter.

My only niece stormed out of the room in anger, anger at God for taking her family; I forced back the flood, and I retreated to the chapel to pray, beating away the salty flow that so desperately needed to rush out, a dark, dammed river of agony that sought its way to the alter. There had still been light in those deep brown eyes that once stared at me through the dimly lit closet. Yet as I prayed, the vision, the fear of emptiness in her wide eyed look as I said goodbye-- the knowledge that I could not save her like I had in the past, in the dark, under the bed--blinded my pink hope.

I could not protect her.

I could not save her.

She feared the emptiness, the loss of pink hope behind her lids.

She didn’t fear death.

She feared leaving us behind in the light.

I called the hospital after my long day at work. It was 4:32 pm. Mother announced without a tremble in her voice, “She just took her last breath.” I closed my eyes to pink hope and sighed that her horrible pain, her fear, had finally ended. I was not there when her light left. I could not stay and watch it go.

I ran, yet emptiness consumed me.

I grew stronger, more callused, icy, and this time I stayed.

“We could probably treat it if you would let us do a biopsy. We have to know what it is first,” the doctor’s eyes pleaded at me.

“No, just let me out of here!” Though I begged, she refused treatment.

“Don’t you cry when I’m gone!” she ordered as we sat at the kitchen table taking care of last details the day before the light left. I fought the tears and swallowed hard to force the tremble from my voice, though one or two escaped earning a look of disappointment, a look that said, “You’ll never make in this man’s world if you don’t harden up.”

The day the light left her and the emptiness filled my heart, I stayed with her until the end. I stayed and took the pain of emptiness. I watched the pink hope disappear from behind her eyelids.

And I cried.

I rebelled.

She knew I would even though she told me not to.

Then I drank. A lot.

Why?

Why not?

It hurt too much. And though the alcohol numbed my body, it didn’t dull the emptiness left behind as I said goodbye to my mother the night her soul chilled me in a last embrace, a final reminder not to cry as the dam broke, her reminder to be strong in a world that takes and takes and takes.

Ha, ha, ha, Mother!

I will cry! Your cold embrace makes my teeth chatter, but it can’t stop me.

I will cry if I want to cry because I am not strong like you.

I am me.

“My beautiful girl, this world is harsh and you are too gentle and small to live here. You must grow and be strong to survive in this world. I’ll keep you close until you are strong enough to live.

“To take my place, you must be strong. You must not cry and show your weakness. There is a time to cry. There is a time for everything.”

But when, Mother, if not before or during or after, when?

When is it okay to cry?

So I stayed. I let the emptiness come.

I didn’t run.

I took the pain as Mother’s pink hope slipped away forever, and I honored her darkness without tears, until after she was no longer there to give me “the look”.

Then, I rebelled.

The pink hope lives behind my lids as I remember.

My pink hope will never dim from unshed tears.