Sometimes you think your week is going to start out one way, then it takes a sharp turn and leads you on an entirely different path. Sometimes the day wakes you up full of promise and hope, then tucks you in at night, numb and devoid of feeling. Sometimes you plan to write a light-hearted post on the age-old question of "how to find more time", and instead find yourself with a heavy heart, cursing time, and grieving the loss of one of your dearest friends. So you decide to write about that instead. Today is that day. This is that post. Her name was Alice. She was alive on a Wednesday. She died on a Thursday. I cried with disbelief for many days leading up to that day, and with unbridled sadness every day since. This was not the script that had been written for this leading lady. There were many more pages in her book, beautiful blank canvases full of imagery, ready to be captured. Her life had more volumes than the treasured Livraria Lello in Porto, and it was more breath
from kegels to chemo and beyond