Forever 21

I don’t usually post twice, but I had a lot of down time today…so lucky you! (heh)

Actually, I’d been talking to some people about this and so thought I’d post it. A couple months after Philip died, Phil and I joined an 8-week parents’ bereavement group. We met once a week, and the therapist who ran it would sometimes give us assignments to do, if we wanted. Like the first was to bring in pictures of our children to share with each other.

The second meeting she asked us to go home and write a letter to our child, then write one back from her/him. We could bring them in the following week to read out loud, if we wanted. I thought that was a good idea, and I did it. I’m posting the letters here – they’re not very long. What’s most striking to me is that when I went to write Philip’s letter, “I” wasn’t writing it. I was listening to him, taking dictation. And I find the last line particularly lovely. It contains a phrase I’ve never heard before, a little gift from Philip.

I’ve mentioned that I keep journals where I write down what he’s saying. This is what gave me the idea. It’s a valuable tool, something anyone can do to try to reach a loved one. And even if you don’t think you’ve “reached” them, chances are you’ll feel how much they love you as you write what you know they’d be saying.

So these are our letters, dated April 23, 2012, exactly two months to the day that Philip died:

Hey you,

I feel kinda weird writing this because now you know what goes on with me more than when you were here. What can I tell you that you don’t already know? I miss you, to borrow a phrase, truly madly deeply. I can’t accept that you’re not here and we both know that’s what I have to do; that’s my work in this life of mine. But I don’t think I can, nor do I want to. I’m like a child who had something taken from her and thinks tears and tantrums will help her get it back. I’m afraid if I stop crying, you’ll really be dead. This grief binds me to you like a live wire and I don’t know how to let it go. What will be there, then? What good to say that’s not our real bond, that there won’t be a void? My body says otherwise. My stomach churns and my chest is tight and the tears are in the back of my throat when they’re not being cried. There’s nothing that isn’t colored by your death. Your death – what does that mean? If I am to give meaning to my life, how am I supposed to do that with you gone? How do I bear the unbearable? I don’t know what to do with this rage and sorrow. I can’t undo what’s done and I am helpless here.

Everyone says time. And the world keeps spinning as if you’re still here. The world doesn’t care. I’m responsible for my inner state but I keep going down the rabbit hole in free fall. Then I stop for a while, then I go down again. It’s like that movie Ground Hog Day; I keep waking up and you’re not here. And I keep getting desperate for someone to tell me what to do. No one can tell me what to do; there isn’t anything to “do.” Because what I want is you to be here and you’re not and I don’t know how to live with you gone.

I love you. Your turn.

Hi Mom,

I love you, too; I didn’t used to call to tell you that in the middle of the night for nothing. I’m still here and you know it. I told you we were growing up together, and now you’ve got to finish what we started. You knew soon as you heard I was gone that the work you were doing was what you had to keep doing. You’ll get there. You know that under it all there’s a floor – there’s a place of peace that abides in you as it abides in everyone. I know how hard it is for you to be happy. It made me sad, sometimes, that you felt things were so hard for you. And I know I was a respite from that; I still am. It’s like we’re more in touch than ever. You certainly think about me more than you used to. You talk to me more, too. Have a little faith. You’ll see. I’m still the light you always thought I was; I didn’t go out, as you keep saying. You just have to look a little harder. The light’s all around you even though you feel you’re in the dark. Light is stronger than dark, mom. When the light shines, the darkness goes away. Think of the light you felt from me and live in it. Just a little, like when you crack the door open, until you’re ready for more. You’re afraid; you don’t need to be. The light is where the peace is and where I am. I’m sorry for your grief but this is what is. You know what that means and what to do about it. For the rest of it, you’ll figure it out. I’ll be right behind you as you do. Watch how this unfolds. You’ll be amazed, if you let yourself.

Okay? So I love you. I’m in the place of no good-byes so we can talk whenever we want to.

© 2013 Denise Smyth