It’s a day to celebrate, and to mourn. Maya died on April 6, 1992, twenty-six years ago. And on this day, my dear friend Patti Frame received my daughter’s liver, and her life began again. Others received the gift of sight, or a new heart, or a new kidney. And many more people received bone grafts and skin tissue. They and their families celebrate this day. So do I. My daughter, who would turn 46 years old this year, is someone to celebrate.

One of the great privileges of motherhood is knowing someone for a lifetime. I watched Maya grow, heard her first words, and watched her first steps.

Maya, age 18 months, at Lake of the Isles in Minneapolis

I can still see her, a dancing sprite, blond hair glistening in the sun, splashing in the Yuba River on a glorious summer afternoon. Or, her later self, brash and witty, making jokes at my expense. No one could make me laugh like Maya could – and no one did a better job of pushing my buttons. Our conflicts were fierce, emblematic battles.

Thankfully, we made peace before she left for college. Raising a high-spirited teenager bent on rebellion is not for the faint of heart. I’m so grateful she lived long enough to show herself – and me – where her talents as an actress might take her. In Swimming with Maya, I write about those final months of her life when she blossomed before my eyes.

Maya at age 18

Maya left this earth at the peak of her beauty and energy. She was like the shootings star carved into her headstone – a brilliant flash across the heavens. I celebrate her always, but most especially on this day.

Yesterday I visited her grave at Oakmont Memorial Park in Lafayette.

The Garden of Remembrance

It lies just beyond the overarching arms of a giant California oak tree, a dancing canopy that splays light and shadow on the grass with every breath of wind. I vividly remember standing there the day Maya’s casket was lowered. As workers winched her down, my knees buckled. I wanted to jump in after her.

Yesterday, as I placed flowers and cleaned her headstone, I marveled at my ability to survive her death, and her ongoing absence.

Flowers for Maya, April 6, 2018

I always have a missing person by my side, but I also have a companion and vivid memories of “love in the trenches” as her stepfather so accurately described our mother-daughter relationship. Ours was a passionate and durable love, but not an easy one.

Every moment is precious to me because I know how quickly and randomly life can end. These days, I no longer sweat the small stuff. I complain less and celebrate more. Oddly, this day is a happy anniversary. It’s a marker of how very far I’ve come since that afternoon all I wanted to do was follow my daughter into her grave.

At Maya’s memorial service, my beloved spiritual mentor Rev. Margaret Stortz said this: “Let’s make Maya’s short life have as much impact as someone who lived into their eighties.”  We rose to our feet in the sanctuary of the Oakland Center for Spiritual Living and gave Maya a standing ovation.

To Maya’s friends and family, to her classmates, to those who received her “Gift of Life,” to everyone who was touched by her, let’s make this a day to celebrate.

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