I had a dream last night. Something that doesn’t happen often.
Rory was there. I recognized her but she felt a little older.
We pressed our foreheads together, touching our nose.
Beauty. Joy.
Then we pulled away. She ran her index finger down my nose and smiled.
She said, “Just like you used to.”
I stayed in that moment with her face glowing at mine.
Perfection.
Most of the time it comes out of nowhere. An unexpected email. Finding a Rory treasure I haven’t seen since her passing. A reminder.
I’m so grateful for these things. I hope I have unexpected Rory things happen for the rest of my life.
But it also provides increased emotion. Anxiety. Tears.
My first instinct is to close off. My hand goes to my shoulder, shielding my body. Soon, I started reaching for her. Things that remind me her.
I wear jewelry everyday that keeps Rory close to me.
A ring with her fingerprint on it.
Or a bracelet and ring that has Rory and my birthstones, given to me by my sister-in-laws.
Necklaces, given to me by dear friends, some with Rory’s picture in them. 
And sometimes, I just need a comfy pair of purple shoes.
They’re touchstones.
Something I can physically grasp.
When I need her to be with me.
When I need to feel not so alone.
There were a number of factors that lead to our family doing online homeschool. It’s definitely not something that I’d thought much about before.
But, right now, it felt right.
The twins are freshman this year. Freshman!
I have four more years. That’s it! Then it’s college, mission, marriage, their own families.
I have four more years until they’re out of the house, doing their own things.
And I want that for them.
But I also want my four years.
I want to vacation when we want to.
I want to eat lunch together everyday.
I want to have scripture study with them in the mornings.
I want to cook with them.
I like them.
I love them.
I want my time with them.
Here are our back to school photos for 2018-2019:
Rory believed that all animals, even inanimate ones, needed to be covered up.
I loved walking into a room and to see this.
Grief is isolating.
We mourn with others.
We grieve alone.
The pain is the missing.
Her voice.
Her sweet smile.
Her laugh. Even the fake ones.
Her snuggles.
Her winks.
It’s in the quiet moments.
Those soul crushing quiet moments.
Banging on the steering wheel.
Pounding the bed.
Dropping to your knees, pain.
Curling up in the closet, crying.
Grappling with the could of’s and the should of’s.
That will never be.
Trying to find contentment.
Trying to be as whole as possible.
Never quite successful.
But I want to be.
I have hope.
Not always on the surface.
Not always accessible.
But there.
I have hope that I will see her again.
Because of Him.
Rory Ann Moore Foundation 