Where do I start?

Do I start with the yellow butterflies that appeared before my mom’s death and have visited me ever since? Always yellow, popping up and following me on walks, outside windows and even on highways as I speed by.

Do I start with the visit to the stinking, rotting beach where I realized I needed to write in order to heal?

Or do I start in a traditional place—therapy—which gave me space to talk and grieve.

Or the acupuncture that released the months, years, decades of grief, slowly returning life force to my fingers and toes?

I know where one chapter of this healing ends. It ends with surrender to pain (always through writing) and a mother who continues to parent from beyond the veil.

All along, a sister. How do I explain her role in all of this? This story is as much hers as mine.