A letter
Querido A,
I’ve been having a lot of tough moments in recent days, and I’m not sure why. Is it the holiday season? Is it the Elisabeth Kubler-Ross book I was reading? Is it just time?
We’ve been watching The War, by Ken Burns. Tonight, there was a story of a woman whose brother will never forget the "unearthly howl" his sister gave when she received the telegram informing her that her husband had been killed. And I was brought back to that morning in E’s office. I didn’t howl; I was just stricken. J said she’ll never forget the look on my face. I don’t think of that time much if I can help it. it was the most terrible day of a long stretch of terrible days to come. I really don’t know how I survived it; shock, I suppose.
But as I watched and heard the story on TV and remembered my own moment when C called me, I realized that despite almost 29 months of you not being here, I still don’t understand how this can be true, how it can be that you’re not anywhere on this planet that I can reach you. The reality is as incomprehensible as it’s ever been. Shouldn’t it sink in at some point, and not be so astonishing every time I give more than a passing thought to it?
I live my life with the understanding that you live on elsewhere, and I keep watch for signs of you here, assuring myself that our separation is only temporary, and only apparent anyway. And many days, that’s enough to get me by.
And then there are nights like tonight when I look up from the day-to-day and wonder again, where the hell are you? And why did you leave me?
Last night as I lay waiting to fall asleep, I asked you if you left the way you did because you knew I’d never willingly let you go?
That’d be just like you; you did things in your own time, your way, without needing a committee to weigh in. And you always said that it was struggle we learned from. If that’s the case, I’ve learned plenty. And yet I can never learn the answer to the only thing I really want to know: Why? Why does it have to be this way? Why does life have to have so much pain in it? Why do people die before they’re old and leave a wake of injured, devastated people behind them?
I miss you, Babe. I never stop. I don’t know how much healing I have left to do. Most days, this feels like about as good as it’s going to get. And I remember the tears in your eyes as you spoke of your beloved grandfather, and I have no reason to believe otherwise.
The rest of my life is seeming very long again.
I’ll keep going, and it will be good, and bad, as always. I’m not hopeless. I just miss you. And I can’t believe it’s been so long since we talked. But there’s nothing I can do about that. I can’t fix or change it. I’m not hopeless; I’m helpless. Which is not really less shitty, you know.
I love you, Sweetheart. I miss you.
Tu Chica Dejada