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convalesce in a clinic. She was a miracle once again, coming back to life from far away.
    In her final illness in 2000, even though lovingly cared for by Lorna, her nurse, she no longer had the strength to fight off death or the demons that had always haunted her.
    My brother, Philippe, and I buried her in Brussels, beside our father. She knew there was a spot for her there, and was happy about it. They had been each other’s big loves in life, even though they separated, and it was appropriate that they end up together. We had our father’s headstone engraved: “Thank you for your love,” and our mother’s: “Thank you for your strength.”
    T he Mullers did not come to the service. Hans had married after they separated and in our agitation after my mother’s death, we didnot manage to reach his son, Martin, in time for the funeral . . . I feel very bad about that because Martin had remained very close to her; I love him and Lily was a mother to him.
    “Today, we’re taking Lily, my mother, for her eternal rest,” I wrote to her friends and my friends who couldn’t be there. “Our hearts are heavy but they should also be light because she has been liberated from all pain and has left on her eternal adventure surrounded by so much love.
    “Fifty-five years almost to the day, Lily was liberated from the death camps. Twenty-two years old and less than 28 kilos. In that little package of bones, there was a flame, a flame that was life. Doctors forbade her to have children, she had two. She taught them everything, how to see, question, learn, understand and more important, never to be afraid.
    “She touched all the ones that she met, listened to their problems, brought solutions and inspired them to find joie de vivre again. She looked so frail and fragile but she was strong and courageous, always curious to discover new horizons. She lived fully and will continue to do so through her children, her grandchildren, her great-grandchildren and her friends who loved her so.”
    I signed the letter from all of us—“Diane, Philippe, Alexandre, Tatiana, Sarah, Kelly, Talita, and Antonia.” (My grandsons Tassilo and Leon were not born yet.)
    I found a sweet note among many others my mother had written to herself, had it printed with an embossed lily of the valley because it was her favorite flower, and included it with what I had written.
    “God gave me life and luck with my life,” she’d written. “During my life, I’ve kept my luck all along. I have felt it like a shadow. It follows me everywhere and so I take it wherever I go, saying, ‘Thank you, my luck. Thank you, my life. Thank you. Thank you.’ ”

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    LOVE
    “L ove is life is love is life . . .” I first wrote these words inside a heart when asked to design a T-shirt for a charity years ago, in the early nineties. I don’t remember which charity it was for, but I do remember taking a photo of the T-shirt on Roffredo Gaetani, an aristocratic, muscular, good-looking Italian ex-boyfriend of mine, cropping his head and turning the photo into a postcard. I still have some of those postcards, and that same drawing marches across my computer screen, has appeared on DVF iPhone cases, canvas shopping bags, graffiti wrap dresses, even babyGap bodysuits. The words from my heart have become my personal mantra and the signature motto for the company.
    Love is life is love. There is no way to envision life without love, and at this point in my life, I don’t think there is anything more important—love of family, love of nature, love of travel, love of learning, love of life in every way—all of it. Love is being thankful, love is paying attention, love is being open and compassionate. Love is usingall the privileges you possess to help those who are in need. Love is giving voice to those who don’t have one. Love is a way of feeling alive and respecting life.
    I have been in love many times, but I know now that being in love does not always mean you