My daughter Della was thirty-six years old when she died. Her death certificate said she died from an overdose of drugs and alcohol.
Starting with what Della could remember, like taking her first steps into my arms in a park in Beverly Glen, California, and throughout her short life, Della saw everything as a collection of snapshots. It’s weird, but that’s how she saw it. After a while, I saw my life the same way.
I took some of those pictures of Della’s life. Judy Ducharme, Della’s companion since her early childhood, took some too. So did Della. But according to my nonreligious...