When you lose a child, there is a period of time when he or she is transformed into something of a mythic figure — the good qualities magnified, flaws diminished to the point of irrelevance.

I’m no psychologist, of course, but my own journey through this type of grief tells me there’s probably a reason for that. It’s how we make sense of the senseless.

The weight of grief is in direct proportion to what is lost. Parents feel that loss deeply and want the world to understand it. We lost something wonderful, something unique and special when we lost our child. Even the shortest lives have profound importance.

In the fraternity of suffering I joined on Aug. 2, 2019 when my 27-year-old daughter Abby was killed in a head-on collision with a tractor-trailer on a godforsaken stretch of a two-lane highway in west Texas, I’ve encountered parents whose children remain in their thoughts virtually flawless, children whose lives, though short, were lived almost in perfection and stand as an example to be honored and emulated.

I get that.

It’s been more than two years since Abby’s death, and I can still say, without embellishment, that Abby was keenly intelligent, fiercely independent, tempered steel in her convictions, deeply empathetic for those who society had kicked to the curb. She was courageous to the point of recklessness. She sort of took your breath away, and not always for the best of reasons.

Everyone who knew her agreed: She was a bad-ass.

But as I think of her now, Abby has escaped — and Abby was always escaping something — from the suffocating constraints of mythic sainthood.

So I can say now, again without embellishment, that Abby was maddeningly stubborn, impulsive, irresponsible and prone to terrible choices (which often led to alcohol and drug abuse, physical abuse and homelessness). She struggled, too, with mental health issues she never fully acknowledged or sought treatment for.

Maybe it’s part of the process, but the Abby I hold in my heart and mind now has that full range of humanity — the admirable and regrettable alike.

As Halloween approaches, that’s the Abby I’m thinking of, that real and wonderful and frustrating Abby.

Even as a small child, Halloween was, inexplicably, her favorite holiday, better than birthdays, better even that Christmas. Naturally her favorite movie was Tim Burton’s dark and quirky “A Nightmare Before Christmas.”

That fits her.

Of all the holidays, Halloween is the most suspect. In fact, it’s not even considered a real holiday. Nobody gets the day off to celebrate it.

For all its innocent fun, the holiday leans toward the inappropriate — a nod to the occult, mysticism, mischief.

It figures. Nothing captured Abby’s attention more than the inappropriate. Consensus bored her. She was intrigued by the outliers, the rebels, the nonconformists. As long as Abby was in the room, she made sure there was no unanimous opinion on anything.

There are probably some parents who imagine their lost children to be somewhere among the harps and halos.

But I imagine Abby among the spirits and spooks and hobgoblins our imaginations summon forth on Halloween night.

That’s how I see my Abby now: Unconstrained. Unrestrained.

Entirely inappropriate.

That’s Halloween… and Abby.

Slim Smith is a columnist and feature writer for The Dispatch. His email address is [email protected].

Slim Smith is a columnist and feature writer for The Dispatch. His email address is [email protected].

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