The Things You Would Have Said
Month
Dear Dad,
It’s been ten years since you left us, and only now do I know how strong you really were. Thank you for creating a house full of love and hope, and thank you for sending my brothers and sisters through college. I’m sorry I didn’t finish.
Thank you for teaching me to love music, the only thing I’ve been able to truly love in this world. I got tuition assistance to a great music school, and I’m entering a piano competition next year. I will play for you in the competition, and I know for certain the music will be more beautiful because of it. But I won’t play to win, because you would want me to just play well. I can see how big your smile would be hearing me play, even if I missed a thousand notes.
I know I will never be as strong as you, but I see a million times over more beauty in this world because you were in it. Thank you.
A thousand more notes for you, and all that I am.
Matt, Age 31
Sissy,
I force myself to make up stories about where your new bruises come from. I love you so much and it kills me to see them upon your face. You fail at trying to keep them hidden, for I still see them when you have forgotten.
The way they jump out at me makes my back and mind twinge with fear. All I think about when it happens are the things worst imaginable: will it be a hospital visit this time or a funeral I will attend?
I love you, but I have some news to say. What you are doing is causing pain and anger; it is a big mistake on your part. We have told you a million too many times. When will you ever learn that there are better out there?
He is all wrong for you. He turns you into a bitter, angry person that cares not even for herself. I don’t get why you like to be treated that way. I don’t understand how two people raised by the same two parents could be so different from one another.
I love you with a fiery passion. I’d jump to save you from anything that brought you harm, whether it be a bullet or another source. I’d do anything to keep you around or anything to save you from anything.
Love forever and always,
Your sister, age 16
Mom,
I want you to know I am proud of the wonderful relationship I have with my husband and my daughter. I want you to know how influential you were in developing those relationships, in making me the wife and mother I grew up to be.
You were thought of by others as gracious and kind, and I tried to copy that from you. But you were really a poor mother. It was obvious that my older brother was your favorite, and I was a mistake you had to live with. I credit a lot of the relationship I have with my daughter to my habit of asking myself how you would have acted, then trying to do better, to not make the same mistakes. Overall I have done very well, and she and I have a close, loving relationship.
I want you to know you were never as good as you thought at hiding your feelings. From my very earliest memories on, going back to when I was three, I remember trying so very hard to be a good girl, thinking that if I was good enough, you would like me, that I would be acceptable to you. Decades later, during a deathbed conversation with my stepfather, he told me you always preferred my brother, that he was your favorite, and you had always worked at keeping that from me. You were not as successful as you thought.
By the time I was eight, I had formulated an explanation. In my child’s mind I thought I understood; I must be adopted. That was why you loved Larry more than me. It all made sense. How could I expect you to love an adopted child to the same degree as your own natural child? My explanation gave you an excuse for the way you treated me. But when I was twelve, we went to Houston to get our passports and visas for travel outside the country and I saw my birth certificate for the first time. I was your natural child, too. I never again had the safety of self-delusion. All that was left was reality: I was yours, but you didn’t want me.
When I grew up, married, and had a child of my own, I vowed to myself that I would do better. I gauged my interactions with my child by comparing them to the interactions you and I had years before. I tried to be more open, more honest, more trusting, more loving, more real in my relationship with her. You influenced me and made me a much better mother than I might have been otherwise. You enabled me to have with my daughter what you and I were never able to have.
Thank you.
Lecia, age 56
To Sandra,
I was five. I spoke a different language and was very shy.
The first time I saw you, I was struck by lightening. I was speechless. You had red hair and were the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.
My fantasy was to rescue you from harm, as Superman.
One day, you chose me in a game of Farmer in the Dell. I was overwhelmed when you chose me, and still speechless.
The fantasy lasted five years. Then one day, our family moved away.
What seemed a lifetime later, when I was fifteen and dating my soon-to-be wife, I took what was a rare trip on a Chicago CTA bus. It happened to take me passed the street where you lived.
You got on that bus. You were more beautiful than I could have imagined. You sat on a seat that was right behind the back exit of the bus. You were right in front of me. I looked at your profile as you looked straight ahead. Did you recognize me as I did you?
The bus was almost empty and we rode along Pulaski Avenue in silence. All was silent. I said nothing. I was thunder struck and speechless again. You got off the bus.
I am in my late sixties, with grown grandchildren, and think of you.
Paul, age 65
Dear Aunt Lisa,
I wish I could talk to you in person, just you and I. I want five minutes to talk to you about things that I really miss about you. If I had five minutes, I would say “thank you” for the Pittsburg Steelers beanie hat and the bracelet. When I heard you liked the Steelers, I started to like them too. I really wish I could sit next to you and root for them together. I want to watch you on more time on the boat having a good time, like when we were at Lake Billy Chinook, inner-tubing all day. It was fun beging there and staying at your cabin.
When you passed away, I was not crying on the outside, but I was sobbing a lot on the inside. I know you loved to sing and I want to say that, even though I have a hard time remembering, I know you had a beautiful voice.
I especially liked how you prayed for your friends and family. I pray for you every night, telling God how much you meant to me. You were such a special aunt and I loved you very much.
Love,
Brock, age 10
Dear Gran,
I love you so much. I know you know that. I like to think we had a special relationship, but to be honest, I think all of your grandchildren feel that way. That says something about the kind person you are, and your generous spirit. I’ve never heard you say a disparaging word about anyone. I wish I could say that same about myself.
The reason I’m writing is because I have always felt horrible for not standing up for you that day. You had spent years taking care of Grandpa as his health failed, and you struggled with your own health concerns. That weekend trip to your hometown was such a treat for you. There was that slot machine in the lobby, and Mom convinced you to go out with her and play it. You always had a bit of a gambler in you, and you were having a ball. I sat there in the bar, waiting for you, and did nothing as I heard the young man come in from the lobby and call you an old bat, and make fun of your posture and your hesitant movements. He wanted to use the machine, and called you a hog. I sat there tongue-tied as I listened to him make fun of you in front of his friends and everyone laughing at his impression of you bent over the machine like a question mark.
I know you didn’t hear what he said, but I did.
Since then, I have never forgotten my failure to open my mouth and say something to shame him. To tell him how hard you worked, to explain the reason you were bent over so close to the keys was because your eyesight had all but been robbed by a relentless disease. To tell him that you were selfless, to describe how you were the center of our family and beloved by so many.
I wish I had the courage to say what I was thinking.
I’ve never forgotten that day.
I’m sorry.
Your granddaughter, age 36
Dear Dad,
You were my hero. You gave me what I wanted and always had a way of getting me what I needed. You always kept me safe from the neighbor’s dog. You always picked me up and kissed my boo-boos when I fell in the driveway or out of the tree in the back yard. You always let me sleep in the bed with you when I got scared of the dark. You continued to love me. Even when I argued with you and yelled those three words I regret the most….“I hate you”. You always encouraged me to do my best in everything I do. You taught me once a quitter always a quitter. That’s why you never let me quit the basketball team.
It breaks my heart that you won't get to see me graduate from high school or college. Nor will you be the one to walk me down the isle at my wedding or be the second one to hold your grandchildren.
I hate myself for not seeing it sooner. I should have taken your problem seriously. I never thought drinking would kill you. I always thought you were going to be around forever. I never thought it was possible you could die. I never thought I would spend one day without you in it.
Daddy, I miss you so much. If you could read this, you would see that I am truly sorry for not getting you the help you needed. I love you and would do anything to get you back.
Your daughter, age 16
Oh J,
You have no idea how much the words you say that are supposed to console me, actually haunt me. I wonder if you can read my thoughts as you speak to me. Sometimes it feels like you can, because you know exactly what to say that can hurt me the most. For instance, telling me how lucky some man is going to be to have me in his life? That’s the worst.
I’m sure you feel like you’re a wonderful friend when you say that, and you are. You don’t have a mean bone in your body and I know if you knew the truth, you’d hardly speak to me at all for fear of causing me any more pain. That’s why I don’t want you to know the truth - because us not speaking would probably kill me.
If I say one thing to you, the one thing I’ve wanted to tell you for so long, it would be thank you. I’ve been so jaded about love for such a long time and meeting you has changed everything. As corny as it sounds, you’ve shown me what real love is. It’s putting someone else’s needs above your own. It’s respecting yourself because that’s what the people you love expect from you. Above all else, it’s wanting happiness for the person you love, even if that happiness isn’t with you.
Before I met you, I always wondered how the greatest love stories written came about. I figured it was the great imagination of the authors, an exaggerated take on personal experience. Now I know that soul mates, true love, fate and all the other cliches that I continually groan at are actually facts. It’s just timing that makes the happily ever after.
Maybe our time won’t be this week, this year or even this decade, or maybe it will never happen. But I’ll always be grateful just to know you’ve touched my life. Please make yourself as truly happy as you deserve to be.
With so much love,
S, 21
Dear Unnamed American Soldier,
I have often thought of you after your kindness to my son in the airport so many years ago. Was it 2005? I don’t remember exactly, but he was probably around 4 years old. We were traveling alone, and Max, my son, was probably a little fidgety or feisty or otherwise impatient. He’s a good boy, but long trips are hard with a little one. You smiled, were kind, and gave him a large coin that had a name, regiment number, and battalion number on it. I looked at the coin quickly, because I still had Max to herd, but had always assumed the name was yours and we could find you, write to you somehow later to thank you for your kindness.
But time passed, and we misplaced the coin. Today, while working all alone in the house, I found the coin. After taking a closer look at it, and looking the name up on the Internet, I now realize we will never find you. The coin says "GARRYOWEN" and the 2d Battalion, 7th Regiment. That’s not your name; it’s the nickname of your cavalry regiment. I will never find you.
Knowing that I cannot personally thank you has hit me hard for some reason. (As an aside, my emotional state was pushed even further when “Billy Don’t Be Hero” played from my iTunes just as I sat down to write this.) As I said above, I have thought of you often, hoping for your safety. You represent to me all of the soldiers who sacrifice, anywhere, every day for us at home. I pray you are safe and well, wherever you are.
Please know that your small gesture, giving a coin to a little boy, had a big impact on him and an even bigger one on his mother. Such a small gesture was magnified against the backdrop of your enormous sacrifice. Thank you, and God bless you and your fellow soldiers.
Max’s Mom, age 45
Hey Dad,
It’s me. There are just a few things I wanted to say.
I sure enjoyed teasing you and laughing with you. Your wit and sarcasm, and the echo of your laugh reverberate in my soul on a daily basis. Movies of recent memories play in my head throughout the day, and it helps me to get through work or social events. Or simply to sleep.
I’m sorry for groaning about taking the day off from work in late March to drive you to your doctor’s appointment. As it is, we never made it there. Either way, I want you to know that no priorities come above family; anything else can be easily shirked off and left for later.
You sure were reticent about going to the hospital with me, but I’m glad you caved in — if not for you or me, for grandma and the rest of the family. We couldn’t have known how little time you had left, but I know they kept you comfortable there.
Dear Yeti,
I know you are both dead and a dog, so you will never get to read this letter. But I still want to tell you that while you were alive, I don’t think I ever fully appreciated having you as both a companion and a pet. I never really played with you, and I didn’t spend much time with you.
I also don’t think any dog should have gone the way you did. You should not have been so scared before they did the stupid syringe thing. I wish, too, that you never went blind. Mom and Dad always talk about you chasing seagulls, playing fetch, and running before your cataracts came on.
In short, I wish I’d told you I loved you more often. You were the best dog any kid could have grown up with. I think you should know that, even if I told you way too late. I love you, Yeti. You are forever in my heart.
Sincerely,
Berkeley, age 9
Mackenzie,
I know you don’t know me but I’m sure you know my name. I’m your Dad, James. I need you to know that I haven’t forgotten about you. In fact, I think about you ofren. I love you, although my actions haven’t shown it. I’m sorry for missing out on so much of your life. I’ve seen pictures of you and you are so beautiful. I’ve made so many mistakes in this life of mine. I’ve taken so much for granted. I just hope and pray that God lets me look into your eyes again. I’ve really messed things up; I’m an addict and alcoholic, which means I’m sick. I’ve made promise after promise that I would change my behaviors and so far they have all been empty. I’m in treatment right now, trying to get help for my illness and so far, this time, it seems to be helping. I do still suffer from the pain I’ve caused you and your mother and brothers. It’s not fair how I’ve treated you. I want you to know that I haven’t given up on you. I love you and hope some day you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me. I truly am sorry and will understand if you can’t forgive me. I will be praying for you always.
Love,
Dad, age 40
Dear God,
I am going to assume that you exist, even if I am still very skeptical. Believing in your existence has two major advantages at this point: on one hand, it allows hope to come in, but at the same time it gives me a concrete figure to blame everything on.
I really feel the need to talk to you. I am really wondering, breaking my head over one simple question: why?
Why did my baby girl have to die right before birth?
Was it something that I did? Did I need to learn something from this tragedy? Or did I need punishment for whatever reason? Was I going to be a bad mom? Or maybe she didn’t want to be with us – her mommy and her daddy?
What were you thinking when you took her? Couldn’t you have been a bit more sensible and taken her earlier then? And why did you give other parents their baby, while they don’t have the financial means to even take care of their precious gift? Why did you give a baby to that other woman, that even considered abortion and made fun of her pregnancy all nine months long. Why not them?
And what is it that you want from me now? Do you want me to be strong? Because I think I am doing a fairly good job.
Yet, there is now a time that having an answer to these questions turns out to be crucial in my process of going on. Until I am sure it was not something personal, how do you think I will ever find the courage to try for another baby? Did you not think of that possibility? Or was that your plan all the way? That I’d just be an invisible mother for the rest of my life, because I am too scared to lose again?
Really God, what is it that you want from me? I need to know. I need to know whether you want me to be strong, ‘forget’ and try my luck again. I can do that! If, on the other hand, it doesn’t matter because you’ve set your mind on taking all my future babies too, I could do that too. I just can’t handle both possibilities at the same time.
You have put me in this situation. I can accept my fate. But it would be nice of you to give me a hint of what my real destiny is, since I feel I have the right to choose the lesser pain if pain is bound to come my path anyway.
Yael’s mom, age 30
Hun,
When you asked me to marry you all those years ago, I didn’t know we’d divorce, but I knew about our son and how he’d probably be missing you alot as you deployed. When you called me a few years later and asked me if I had time to talk, I knew something was really wrong, but I didn’t (yet) know it was cancer. When you came to visit a few months ago, I knew it was getting close to the end, but I didn’t know it would happen here, with me and your son.
We’d been such a great divorced couple. We were still genuine friends and still cared very much for each other. We raised our son united on every big decision. And when I remarried, you didn’t blame me. The military’s been unkind to both of us in relationships.
But I want you to know how disappointed I am in your last few months of life. I begged you to let me and your son move closer to you, to get more time with him. I begged you to follow your doctor’s instructions about food, drinking, smoking, medications. I (and other members of your family) tried to get you to talk about your wishes. But none of it mattered–it was more of a priority to hang out with your friends.
In some ways I can’t blame you. Your friends thought you were a Demi-God, the life of the party. They didn’t how how much of an absentee dad you were. You lavished them with your time and left your own son in the cold.
All these years I’ve known you, you were a good person in your heart, but I’d been somewhat looking forward to the future, where your son would see for himself just how low on your priority list he’d really been. I’d hoped that after the military, those priorities would change and you’d forge a true relationship with him.
Now, you’ve become this perfect martyr. In his eyes, you were perfect and taken too soon. In mine, you left before the Big Revelation.
Now, I’m forced to raise your son in your shadow, without the benefit of your humor and humility.
Every day, I thank the Lord that I met you, was blessed with our son. I just hope I can show him the priorities and meaning in life that you didn’t find.
Your (still) loving ex-wife, age 32
Dear Mum,
I think of you often. I am almost the same age as you when you died and I understand now how it is to be growing older. As I think back, there are many things I would like to have said to you, done for you or done with you. You never complained, even though you must have been scared when Dad had Alzheimers and you had very little money. I am glad you asked me to help you on occasion, but there was so much more I could have done to make things easier for you. I regret that I didn’t. I regret that I was indifferent to your feelings. I often think of what I would say and do now under the same circumstances. I do know that you are aware of my thoughts and feelings now and that gives me comfort. I thank you for appearing to me that time after you died, with flowers for me. It touched me deeply.
I remember you lying in the hospital bed after you had your stroke. I was the only one there with you. You were unconscious, but you were aware of me being there I am sure. Why didn’t I hold your hand and stroke your forehead? The doctor told me you were dying; why couldn’t I have done this for you? I am so very sorry. I wasn’t the person I am now.
We did have many good times in the earlier years. You were my best supporter when I headed out on my many adventures. You allowed me to explore the world, although I think it must have been hard for you. I knew you loved me, and you were wise to let me go.
I also want to tell you that I am loving using all the things you left to me. Every time I see your initials on a silver spoon or any other item, I think beautiful thoughts of you. The things you loved I also love. You were a sweet, beautiful and sensitive person. I was so blessed to have you as my mother. I am sure God is very pleased with you.
Love,
Pat, age 73
Dear Grandma and Grandpa,
I am really sorry for all those times I asked to spend the night at your house and would steal money from you when you were not looking. It has bothered me my whole life. I know you had your social security money in those envelopes and, as an adult, I now realize how important that income was to you.
I feel really bad for taking it and I think Grandpa caught on because he would not want me to stay overnight as often as you did, Grandma. I bet he knew how much was in that envelope, down to the penny, and I thought he wouldn’t miss a few dollars.
Please forgive me. I am almost 50 now and this stupid thing I did as a child has bothered me tremendously.
Love,
Your granddaughter, age 48
Dear Insecure Me,
You are far behind me, although painful feelings do come up once in a while. I am writing this for all the “fat girls” and all the others who felt pushed to the side, like we didn’t matter that much. Luckily, I did have good friends who didn’t judge or make me feel any less of a person than I was. I was not terribly overweight, but it didn’t matter. I was something to laugh at, to make other people feel better about themselves. I do remember the comments and looks at times when I entered a classroom, or walked down a hall, meant for me to hear I’m sure. I’ve come to realize why I was so shy: most likely not to call attention to myself, I wanted to stay somewhat invisible.
I do remember in grade school when a teacher gave each kid in the class a piece of paper, telling us to write our names down and then pass it around to the other students. We were to write one nice thing about that person. As you could imagine, everyone rolled their eyes and acted like it was a bother, me included. It turned out to be a beautiful idea. You see, everyone’s paper had 30 nice things written about them. We all wrote anonymously, and I think that way people could write what they really thought, without peer pressure. I hung it in my room where it stayed to remind me that yes, I was “sweet” and yes, “pretty” and yes, “funny”. I really wish more teachers would try this project, if they only knew what it would mean to children, all children.
Well, I’m all grown up now, married with three wonderful children. I don’t have the body of a supermodel, but I look pretty good. Gone is the shyness; what a waste of time. I tell my children (who thankfully have their father’s metabolism) to please treat everyone with respect, do something nice for someone, especially one who feels alone or picked on, say hello, or simply smile at them. It will make you feel good, and knowing from experience, it may mean the world to them.
Kelly, age 44
Dear M,
I am sorry I was so young. I think back everyday and wished that I were older. Maybe if I had been older, you would have felt comfortable enough to confide in me. I am sorry you were sick, and sorry that you were in so much pain. I wished in the last years of your life that our families were closer. It pains me that there had existed such a divide among our families.
I do remember you, though. I remember your spontaneity and your carefree personality. You were intelligent, fun, and such a delight to anyone who had the pleasure of being among your company. Did you not feel these things?
When you took your life, our family quickly deteriorated. I remember gazing up at my mom in sheer disbelief. Was it true? I remember your funeral and being behind that god-awful curtain, separated from everyone. Tears poured out my eyes when I saw Grandma cry for the first time; she was weeping for her little brother. We all were crying. To this day I cannot listen to Sarah McLachlan’s “Angel”.
Sometimes when I think about you, I try hard to empathize with you. I try to imagine what thoughts ran through your head on that horrendous day. It is hard for me to conjure up what could have possibly been so bad. Why did you do it? Why did you leave behind a wife, two daughters and so many family members that loved and cared for you? It has been several years and yet my questions have never been answered. But, maybe there aren’t answers. Maybe you did what you did because you thought it was the only way. No matter, I will always have love for you. I will always think of you daily. I am just sorry that I wasn’t there.
Love,
Me, age 24
Dear First Romance,
You were my first love. I had many loves following, but you were the first. Twenty-eight years later, I have a family I adore, a job I love, and a community that is precious to me. I hadn’t thought of you in years. Twenty-eight years after seeing you for the last time, you contacted me out of the blue.
How much fun to reconnect! Sending pictures of our families, a few phone conversations - it all seemed easy; nothing to be wary of. I tell you, “I’ll be in town, let’s get together." I will never speak for you, but how I was fooling myself.
Twenty-eight years later, the second you stepped out of the car, I remembered. Remembered that you are a charismatic. Not just someone with charisma and an engaging personality, but a true charismatic; irresistible. Twenty-eight years later, and in a second, my heart was in your hands.
I have gained some wisdom in my middle age. I will never really know what you wanted from me, but ultimately it doesn’t matter. I cannot give it to you.
You made my heart ache, and because of that I wish you had never contacted me. I am refocusing my attention on the family that I am so blessed to have, where it belongs. I advise you to do the same.
There is a part of me that will always love you.
Goodbye.
Jules, age 47
Dear Trish,
Thank you for sharing John and your sons with me. I feel you with me so often, even though we have never met, and know that you are still very much a part of this blended family.
John adopted your two beautiful boys when they were only little guys - I adopted them into my heart when they were adults.
John and I have found each other after over 50 years on this earth! Soulmates, to be certain. Neither of us have had biological children, but because of you, we are a beautiful blended family and have five beautiful grandchildren.
Nineteen years ago, I was diagnosed with cancer and lived. The cancer you were diagnosed with took your life, but not in the three months the doctors gave you…20 years later! You are a strong and beautiful woman, wife and mother.
We know that if you were asked right now whether you want to remain where you are or return to Earth, you would choose to stay put. I just want you to know that I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for sharing your boys with me, and for giving me a chance to experience what true love is really all about.
Today, on Brian’s birthday, I just want to thank you for bringing him (and Rick) into this world, and for sacrificing your own life so that I could experience joy.
I’m crying now.
I love you, Trish.
Deborah, age 56