Querido A,
You know, the other day I felt okay; like I was really going to be fine sooner rather than later. And maybe I am. But today wasn’t quite as fine. It was okay+. I’m grading my days now. Once a teacher…
I got the AMG new music newsletter today. It always makes me think of you, of course. I had to sign up for it myself after you passed. I don’t remember when I realized it hadn’t been coming, or when I started missing it, but I couldn’t stand the thought of losing one more thing that was true when you were here. I just couldn’t. And while it no longer comes with your name on it, it’s just a tiny piece of our routine I can hold on to. I know I’m just faking myself out. There are lots of things like that I’m doing. But I guess the world can forgive me for this small illusion; I’m full up to here with reality.
There was an album on it today I know you would’ve wanted: Eric Clapton and J.J. Cale, playing and singing together. You would’ve been all over that. I wanted to get it for you, and it made me sad.
Every day there’s something, usually many somethings, that I would’ve shared with you as a matter of course. It shows up, and my first impulse is still to reach out to you. I remind myself to write it down here, but it’s just not the same, Sweetie. How could it be? There are so many little things, small appreciations for things the rest of the world wouldn’t have bothered to notice. I have no one that cares about Brian May’s single "wah" now, and who would happily read my rhapsodic description of the fuzzy caterpillar on the sidewalk in front of the office. The world was so much more special when I had you in it to enjoy the minutiae with. You were, and remain, the only person I knew who appreciated all the stuff, big and small (and especially the small), that I do. And what’s more, you never thought I was silly or foolish for doing so. I don’t know if you realized what a gift that was to me; I’m not sure I ever told you. I never once got the impression that you wished I was less me, or wished I was different. You took me and loved me as-is. And it was heaven.
I guess I was due for a cry and some wallowing. It always comes back, with a little less force each time, and the time it takes to build up to critical mass is a little longer each cycle. This, we call progress. When you’re giving birth, the time shortens between painful contractions; when you’re given death, you hope the time between painful contractions lengthens. But I think the labor of grief is longer and harder (no matter what my mother says), and there’s no definitive ending to look forward to. None but the final one. And I do. I really do.
If you hadn’t been so fucking charming, this would be easier, you know. It’s all your fault! And yes, I’m blaming you. Rule #1: Always blame the person not in the room. If you don’t want to be blamed, you gotta stick around. God, I wish you had. I wish it every single day, every single hour. I miss you, babe. I miss you.
I love you.
The girl left behind