A Letter To Nate

Memories of the days after your funeral are blurry, like so many out of focus photographs. Entire days, weeks, and months passed. I know I visited your grave. I know I went to mass and raged at God. And since I didn’t get fired, I can only assume I continued to go to work, where I did something, talked to some people, and counted down the hours until I could escape to the safety of my car to cry.

Because there is so much I either can’t or won’t remember, the memories I do have are Kodachrome clear. I always struggled to share myself with you – I could never seem to find the words to tell you how I felt or how much you meant to me – so I wrote you letters. When I cleaned out your personal effects, I stumbled upon shoeboxes full of every card and letter I’d ever sent you . . . going all the way back to 11^th grade. I never knew you’d kept those letters carefully tucked away in shoeboxes for all those years. Of course, as it turns out, there was a lot I didn’t know back then.

After your funeral, I left letters at your grave . . . letters where I begged you to forgive me for failing to save you. Letters where I promised to carry you with me for the rest of my life. Letters where I swore I would do whatever it took to make you proud of me. These letters were carried away on the wind. I know they never made it to you but I wrote them anyway.   

I’ve probably written thousands of letters to you since that very first day when you tapped me on the shoulder, asked to borrow a pencil, and stole my heart. You, on the other hand, were a terrible pen pal. I can count the letters you wrote to me on one hand – which makes them all the more special to me.  

On the eve of the 16^th anniversary of your death, there is so much I want to share with you. I’ve written and rewritten this letter thirty times. I reread what I’ve written and I’m embarrassed at how stupid and trite it sounds when all I want is to be able to tell you is what’s in my heart. The thing is, Nate – you weren’t supposed to get sick. You definitely weren’t supposed to die. You were my happily ever after.

Not once in the 16 years you’ve been gone have I ever gotten angry at you. I was pretty sure I checked the box on the anger stage of grief, but upon further reflection, I’ve unleashed the fury on God; on your doctors; and most often, on myself. If only I’d loved you more or loved you better . . . if only I wasn’t a workaholic . . . if only I didn’t go to Memphis . . . if only I’d been more compassionate, more empathetic, more kind . . . you could fill the Grand Canyon with my guilt, shame and the if-only’s.

I’ve spent 16 years trying to figure out why you’re gone and why I was left behind. I’ve tried to figure out how to be enough – good enough, smart enough, thin enough, rich enough, talented enough. I often wonder if you’d be proud of the woman I’ve become. I desperately hope the answer is yes, but I’m never quite sure. That uncertainty is the thing that propels me out of bed each morning. It’s what motivates me to show up and give what I’ve got, no matter what. What I do isn’t important. It’s how I do it that matters to me. And no matter how tired I am, no matter how I feel, I try my darnedest every single day to be a day maker.

I feel inadequate most of the time. I don’t know if I’m honoring your legacy or not – but this old girl isn’t a quitter. I wasn’t the only girl who didn’t quit the t-ball team in 1^st grade for no reason. (And let me be clear. I should have quit. I was terrible.) I do the only thing I know how to do – keep on keeping on like a bird that flew. I wish I had the words to tell you how you’ve changed my life. I wish I’d had the courage or the foresight to tell you when I had the chance. My biggest wish, though, is to live a life that makes you proud.

16 years. It goes by in the blink of an eye and yet it feels like an eternity when you’re grieving. Of course, you’re not really gone – because I carry you in my heart and thus, I am never truly alone.

Love – for ALWAYS,

Me  

 © Princess D, 2017