The Things You Would Have Said

Jim,

Still missing you after 10 years!

I know we talked about everything during our time together (20+ years). We laughed, argued, and had so much fun. You told me that you were afraid I would be alone the rest of my life after you left me, and you didn’t want that for me. You said I should have someone to love and take care of. I hate to say it but you were right. I am alone. I used my mother as an excuse for the first 3 years then she left me. No more excuses.

I did date but never found anyone. I thought I did twice but was wrong both times. I have been told I live in the past and I admit I do at times. I have now retired and am trying to fill that void of not working with so many other things. My family thinks I should move up with them (you know me, never going to happen). I need my independence, but I am lonely and I need your help. How do I let go and still hold on at the same time?

You said you don’t want me to be alone but you never told me how to move on. It is so good to know you knew I loved you and I knew you loved me. I wish more people understood how important it is to say things to the people you love before they go! 

I guess I just wish at times you were wrong and I was with someone who appreciates me. Maybe I set my standards too high and compare them to you, which I try hard not to do. 

I again wish you had told me how to move on before you left. You were my love and soul mate. They say you have only one soul mate but I have also heard there is a good possibility you could have two. 

Love you always.
Jackie, age 67

Dear Mark,

Sometimes when I enter the doors of church and walk into the room to say my hello’s, I still expect to see you lift your head up and give me a huge smile like you always did. My mind still tricks me into thinking you are going to walk over and instantly ask how I was doing. When my mind tunes back into reality, my heart drops, knowing you aren’t really there.

I wish I had told you how much you really meant to me. You were like a father I didn’t really have and I wish I had told you that. In all honesty, you were the most understanding and heart-filled guy I knew. There wasn’t a single mean bone in you. I want to tell you that I have learned so much from you. You were so wise and always put other people first. Hearing about your sickness was devastating but I was happy to hear how much healthier you were getting. Although you missed many weeks of church, you came back strong and confident.

Then, the one week I missed church because I was visiting my dad, your time was up and you were gone. When my mom called me to tell me, I couldn’t stop crying. I wish I could have said goodbye. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. You were supposed to live! You were getting better, so what went wrong?

Right now, I wish I could ask you how it is up there, because I know that’s where you ended up. I want to tell you about my basketball games and hear your voice again. I wish you knew that. It didn’t seem like it was your time. You had blessed so many people but we still needed you in our life. Sometimes when I walk in the kitchen and see your picture, I feel as if a baseball is stuck in my throat. Holding back the tears, I hear your beautiful singing voice, singing the songs in church. I hear your laugh, your voice, your breath, as if you were standing right next to me. As if you were still here. 

I miss your annoying jokes that I never understood. As the days add up, I cherish your silly jokes more and more. It’s super hard for me to think about you and not feel the pain that I feel. Knowing you are in a better place and you did great things while you were here on earth, helps me find a little happiness in your death. You lived a life that people remember you by and admire, and that’s what counts.

I wish you were still here. I wish I could ask you to stay. Knowing I can’t, I appreciate the time I knew you.

Every ounce of my love,
Angelina, age 14

Hi Mom

I never got to say good bye and tell you that I love you. When you told me you weren’t going to make it it didnt really sink in, I was only 12. I wish I had one more moment to talk with you and tell you how awesome you are/were. Miss you more every day, hope you are proud of me, I did the best I could.

Love,
MK, age 47

Dear Wahneeta,

I wish that I had spent more quality time with you before you got sick. I always loved your peanut butter fudge, easily the best in the world. I remember when I was little I would come over to your house and all I wanted to do was go home. Now I wish that I had come over more often.

I never fully appreciated you being around, or for that matter, being my great-grandmother. I never really got to know grandpa because he was gone too early. I always took him for granted too. I still have pictures of you and grandpa together. Even on your wedding day, before I was born, I have pictures. I’d just like to say just say I’m sorry, and I wish I could start over.

I hope you’re reading this in heaven,
Andrew, age 12

Hey,

I wish I could tell you everything I wanted to tell you. I just do not have the nerve, to be honest.

I remember the first time I saw you. I was a freshman, completely new to the school. I was on my way to honors literature and you were walking down the hall. I wanted to ask you for your name, but I didn’t think you’d want to be seen talking to me considering I was a pitiful 9th grader and you were a senior.

I spent the whole day thinking of you and hoping I’d see you again. As days went by, I looked for you every day. I’d often walk by you in the mornings and on the way to 5th period. You were beautiful, and I was me. You were as great as can be, and I was plain as plain can be.

Day after day, I fell harder and harder for you. I finally figured out your name. Two months before our school year ended, we became friends after you playfully teased me. You were marvelous. You were so kind, funny, and handsome. I couldn’t figure out why you wanted to be my friend, but I accepted the fact. Every time you saw me, you got this huge smile on your face and you actually looked excited to see me. You have no idea how amazing that made me feel. It made me feel like I actually was wanted. 

You graduated 4 days ago and now I realize that I missed my chance. I wish I could tell you how I feel about you. I wish I could tell you how safe you make me feel. I’m happy when I talk to you. No one has made me this happy and drove me insane at the same time. You smile and my knees get weak. I know this sounds like all of those sappy things teenage girls say, for I am only a teenage girl myself, but I really do have strong feelings for you, and I wish you could know. I wish you had mutual feelings. Who knows, maybe you do? But I guess I will never really know.

Have fun in the real world. ♥

Signed,
Yours Truly, age 15

My little sunflower seed,

Losing you was one of the hardest things I have ever had to go through. I have been wanting to be a Mom as long as I can remember. When we found out I was pregnant, we couldn’t believe it was actually happening! Your Daddy and I were so happy and excited and right away started to think about what you would be like. When I started reading some things about pregnancy, I found out that at that time you were the size of a sunflower seed. For some reason, we started referring to you as our little sunflower seed. While it was silly, the nickname stuck.

Sadly only a couple of weeks later, the worst thing that could have happened did. We lost you. Although you may have not been a part of me for very long, I still loved you just as much as if I had carried you for 9 months. The whole experience of having a miscarriage was terrible. It was a constant, physical reminder that you were no longer with us. I was just so incredibly sad and felt like my body had let me down. The doctors were so medical about it all. Telling me things like: “This happens 1 in 5 pregnancies”, “It was your body’s way of knowing something was wrong” and “Hopefully next time you will come out on the other side of things”. I don’t care how often this happens; it doesn’t make me miss you any less. 

Although I am hopeful that someday I will be a Mom, there will never be another first. You were my first pregnancy and will always be my first baby. I would have given you the world and loved you more than anything. I hope you know that I would give everything to still have you growing inside me. “If love could have saved you, you would have lived forever.”

Love you forever and not a day less,
Mommy, age 28

Dear Ross,

I am writing this letter to you because I have no idea how to get through to you. You never seem to be ok with yourself, or how you’ve turned out in life, and you always seem to be looking for something wrong with the way things are. You can never just accept things on face-value and always look for deeper meanings when often there aren’t any. Sometimes life just “is”. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, it just is. People will say things to you without having any sort of ulterior motive; they are just concerned for your general well-being. Whilst this is not always the case, you have to accept that these things do actually happen, so don’t twist things around in your head and get yourself all worked up about it. 

I need you to understand that you are ok. You have your ups and downs, but you’re ok. Just try to relax a little and enjoy the life that you have. Go out there, be yourself and love who you are. By loving yourself, hopefully someone else will learn to love you too. I know you feel alone, but you’re not. You have friends and family who love you dearly.

I know you don’t think you’re the “nice guy” that 95% of people get to see. You think that you’re really living in that 5%, and what everyone else see’s is a lie. I can tell you right now, that’s not true. You really are a nice guy. Yes, you’ve made some mistakes. Done things that you regret, unintentionally hurt people that didn’t deserve it, and said things that you should have kept to yourself. The important thing is to accept that this has happened, and learn from it. Instead of calling them “mistakes”, call them “experiences” instead.

I know right now you don’t feel ok. You’re back in that rut, thinking that every time you get climb out of this hole and start to feel ok with yourself, someone or something seems to kick you off the edge and you’re falling right back down there again. The important thing to remember, is to never give up climbing out of that hole. Eventually you’ll make it, and find someone to help you fill that hole in once and for all so that you never fall down it again.

I’m sorry that I haven’t always been there to help you, and that this letter makes no sense. It’s very hard to write this to you. So many things I’ve been thinking for quite some time, but never figured out how to tell you. Hopefully you will read this and understand. 

I know that you’ll be ok. I know this because I know you better than you think. I know this, because I am you. I understand this place is for writing letters to people you feel you cannot contact, or have lost. I am writing this to you on here because I feel like I’ve lost you somewhere in that mind of ours. Please come back to me, I’ll be here for you when you’re ready.

Sincerely,
Your scattered mind, age 25

Dear Dad,

You always encouraged me to tell you whenever I got overwhelmed over something. But I rarely did. Just by bottling all my emotions inside, good or bad, my behavior started to change and you all noticed. I did little talking, and isolated myself from you and everybody else. Sitting in the corner of the living room writing in my journal, while you guys were watching movies.  I felt weird in my own home. I felt like a screw up, never doing or saying anything right. And I never thought otherwise. 

Then I started to act different at school. Not by much, though, still the same 13 year old girl. But I stopped asking questions, I slacked off, and I somewhat changed people’s opinions on me. I never wanted to be judged by people I barely knew, but that’s what was happening. I regret not telling you how I was feeling in the first place. At school I felt like the nerdy perfectionist and at home I felt like the big sister who couldn’t do anything right. It was all enough to make me cry in my room with the door locked.

But of course you never knew because I kept it to myself. I felt worthless and I didn’t want to be in this world anymore. I pushed myself more and more not allowing myself to breathe. I wanted to be the perfect daughter that you would ALWAYS be proud of. But that wasn’t happening. But here I am, trying as hard as I can. And I am still trying to be an awesome role model to my little sister. So don’t worry. This year is going to be a fresh start. I will be an eighth grader and I will make you proud.

Love,
Your Daughter, age 13

Dear D,

It is almost two years since we met each other. I’ll always remember the first moment we locked eyes, the passion that was hidden behind a pair of Ray-Bans that flourished into the best relationship and the best two years of my life. I wanted to give the world to you and expected so little in return. I just wanted someone to listen to me, a guy to let me know that the world wasn’t such a bad place as long as I was with you. The day I was going to ask you to marry me, ring in hand, I knew something was wrong, so I held back. Then you broke up with me. Through a Facebook message. With a cop-out reason.

How dare you? I gave you everything I had, with the most sincere dedication, to not even hear (what I can only imagine) the tremble in your voice so I knew that you actually cared about me. Looking back now, you never cared about me. You only tried to mimic me in the things I did for you. I don’t know why you wanted to date me, but it clearly wasn’t for the commitment you told me about in the beginning. The two years you were with me were the biggest lie you ever told yourself. At least I can say that that I was truthful with my feelings.

I am so unabashedly disappointed in you. You put yourself on such a high pedestal that there can be no return from this fall from grace. The friendship that you wanted after we broke up will never happen. Find some other guy to trick.

Not-so-sincerely,
C, age 24

Father,

I remember fights in the house for as long as I can remember. I remember cowering in fear in my room, plagued with nightmares. I always got these terrifying dreams of dinosaurs and giants whenever you and mother would start fighting while I was sleeping. These nightmares, whenever I got them, taught me how to be strong. I remember running though the forests I created, the houses and cities, lavish and huge, to escape the monsters that represented you. I never could, and I would always wake whenever the T-rex got me. Whenever I felt myself being consumed by the jaws and snapping, gnashing teeth of this violent prehistoric creature.

In a way, I thank you. You taught me to be strong. I also found myself standing in front of you, in front of you and mother, screaming at you to stop. To stop because your baby girl was scared. Because I hated the fighting. I knew at a very young age fights like the ones you and mother had weren’t normal. They happened to often and you left too frequently.

Sister moved out, and left me to fend for myself at a young age. Much to young for a girl like me. Part of me loathes her for it-you forced her to leave. She wanted out of that house as much as I wanted out of life. Your baby girl, at 11 years old, inflicting self harm and wanting to die every time a fight erupted, every time she didn’t do well enough that she knew her precious Daddy would get mad at her for.

Despite what you put me through, I think your breaking moment was when I informed you about my tendencies that lead your baby girl to hurt herself. I was 13, standing in front of you showing you the scars on her wrists and what do you do? You scream at me. You scream at me while I’m standing there at my weakest point, your telling me I had no right. After that, everything started getting better. You and mother started fighting less, you left less often if at all, and the nightmares started going away. 

In a way, I hate you. I hate what you’ve put your family through, what you’ve done to me. I have trouble trusting men now, thinking they’ll be like you, bound to hurt me. I have a hard time opening up to people because of you telling me I had no right to react the way I did. 

But all in all, I love you. You’re my father and I need you. You’re my daddy, and you kept me safe and continue to look out for me, your baby girl. I remember when the house burnt down and I saw you cry for the first time. How you held me close and told me “It’ll be alright, baby girl. Everything will be okay” and how I trusted you so blindly because I didn’t know what else to do. I trusted you because I knew that you didn’t know what else to do either. You taught me to be strong and to believe in myself. And whenever sister would lash out at me-in words or violence-you would reprimand her. You are law in the house, and you would protect me from her. Mother never could do that. But you would stand up and tell her to shut her mouth or leave.

And despite my hard time opening up to people, I dare myself to because I need to have blind, relentless faith in someone, sometimes. I’ve found someone that adores me right now, and I adore him. I’m starting to rely on him more and more. And you should be happy to know he’s nothing like you, Daddy. He would never hit me, and he doesn’t do drugs like you once did. He holds me close-like you did the day of the fire. He’s seeing me through to what I want to do, just like you.

You’ve lead me through elementary, high school and now to college. You’re seeing through to make sure that I do what I want. Despite everything you’ve put me through, you’re being a Dad.

I could never tell you any of this because we aren’t close. But I know we are more alike than anything else. You’ve taken care of me for 17 years, and despite how scared of you I was when I was younger and what you’ve done to me mentally, I love you. 

From,
Your Baby Girl, age 17

To you, 

I’m afraid to tell you that I’m still hurt. And I’m afraid to tell you that I’m still angry, that you broke my trust, and that you’ve been so unkind and much too hard on me. Instead, I’m pretending - like you - that I never told you I loved you, because I’m also afraid to tell you that I still do.

Love should be told with love, and without shame, or regret, or bitterness. Love would be a story that grows in the telling. It doesn’t always work out that way, though, and it didn’t. From me to you, I’m not sure now that it ever could, not after everything that’s been told in between. These chapters are ragged and torn, their fragile words censored by a reckless and inelegant hand, and this ending is a sad one.

You’ve left me ruined and scarred, my tenderest disclosure paid in welts that tell now only of longing and its submission, while you talk of love as though it were something you know, and not a woman, weeping and unheard and afraid in front of you.

From me, age 31

Dear S,

I sat and stared at you and wondered why; we’d made love so many times before. I just shrugged it off. What I meant to say was that I was taking a picture of you to keep forever. What I didn’t tell you was that was the last time. You have been my world, love and heart for more than 6 years, but it’s time to move on. What I always wanted to say was that I would have moved heaven and earth for you. With all my heart, I’ll always love you. 

Love always and forever,Me, age 39

Dear the adopted,

It is hard knowing that you were adopted. Trust me, I know what it feels like. It is hard to know that someone gave you up. I was adopted at three months old. The people who adopted me are my great aunt and uncle. During my childhood, I did not know. I found out when I was five. I was at my uncle Wilber’s funeral and I met one of my younger sisters. That’s when I got told that I was adopted.

I often wonder what my life would have been like if I stayed with biological mother. I am the oldest of five girls, one of which stayed with my birth mother. I recently met Lala and the woman that gave birth to me. After that meet, I decided that I like the way my life is. I am telling you this because I want to help. Even though I’m not an adult, I remember the feelings of pain and want. You are lucky that you have a family that cares, even though they are not you’re real parents.

You’re friend,
Victoria, age 13

Dear Mom,

I never fully appreciated you when you were alive. I was too busy being a smart-mouth-know-it-all-sassy-pants. I wish I would’ve learned earlier in life how special you really were. It wasn’t until I was about 40 yrs old that I started to look at you as a person with feelings, too. I remember the time I came home as a surprise to visit, you hugged me so tight for a long time and just sobbed. Now having a “Gypsy daughter” of my own to be concerned about, I understand you now more than ever. I wasn’t done having fun with you and laughing so hard until one of us peed our pants (not on purpose). I don’t regret for one moment that I came home to live for six months before you left this earth.

It wasn’t fun to be on the phone with Dad when you finally took your last breath. Listening to Debbie in the background making it all about her as usual (nothing has changed). I’m still glad you didn’t suffer and have to endure a nursing home. I’ve worked in those places; even the nicest of them, there is never enough kind help.

I know I didn’t say this enough when you were alive…but I love you, Momma! Not a day goes by where you don’t cross my mind several times a day. A picture of you in your kitchen is in my kitchen. You made the best fried chicken and you were right: all that spaghetti has caught up with me. What I wouldn’t give to have one more day with you but that wouldn’t be enough. I could write for days how my heart aches for you. It hurts Dad and my brothers to look at me sometimes because I look like you so much (an honor). I love you and miss you everyday of my life! 

All my Love,
Lee Anne (Queenie), age 56

Dear Pepaw,

Since I can’t say all of this to you face-to-face, this is my last resort.

I’ve always wanted to know what I did wrong to make you not want to call me. Mom and Dad always told me that you had our number. The years after you shoved us out of your life, it never changed. They knew they couldn’t turn off a girl’s love for her grandmother, and that they had no right to tell me to hate you. But even as the years went by and you never picked up the phone, I still chose to have hope in you, and give you the benefit of the doubt. Now here I sit, an almost sixteen year old. My birthday isn’t even on the horizon yet, but it’s staring me in the face anyway, and I can’t help but wonder, “Will this be the year?”, even as I remind myself our phone number has finally been changed.

Since I’m so close to becoming an adult, I’ve been trying to move on and grow up a little. But it’s hard when you don’t have anyone to confide in, and when you want something so much. Mom is too self-absorbed, and Dad acts like it never happened, and none of you exist. It’s his way of coping. But I remember, and I’m here too. I hurt, too. 

However, I’m not going to let you ruin what is rightfully mine. I may be depressed, and probably always will be, but I stand tall anyway. And It’s time to straighten up and say goodbye, once and for all. I still love every single one of you; you, and all of those cousins and relatives around you, were some of my most prized relationships. I grew up with you all on the same street as me, and that’s not the kind of love that just goes away, even if you did hurt me and my parents so much. They may not have the courage to be honest with themselves, but I do, and if I could I’d visit you and try and be your granddaughter, even if you don’t want me to. Nothing has changed except time and distance. 

Love,
Haley, 15

Dear Melissa,

I am so sorry that I hurt you and made you cry when I called you ugly in 5th grade. You had done absolutely nothing to me, yet I joined the crowd with the unnecessary torment. Your tears still stain my memory to this day. You were kind to me and others despite the insults. We had no right to do that to you just because you were beautifully different than us. 

Sincerely,
Darlene, age 19

Pa,

I know that you are always there for me.
I know that you may not be at home because you have to go make money.
I may only see you on weekends but you have never let me down.
The love I have for you is the same as you have for me. Unconditional.

Me, age 16 

Dear Mom,

I have said this word to you more than once, and that word is hate. It’s a strong word, and I don’t even know that until I have said it. But then I go back and think about it. I feel really badly when I say it and I know it hurts you when you hear your daughter saying it to you.

Unfortunately, I have said it to you more than once but it just comes out of anger. But you are someone who means the world to me. I didn’t think when I said it, and didn’t know how much four letters could be so strong and hurt you. I never meant to say it, and I never want to again. I hope you take this as a sincere apology. I know I hide my feelings but I love you and always will.

From your daughter, age 12

Dear Dad,

Today I was dusting and found the book I was going to give you for your 60th birthday. It was a book of funny photos and I paused and looked through it. Then Abi came to me and asked what it was, and I said it was Grandpa’s birthday gift. She has your sense of humor. At age 12 she spends too many hours looking at funny videos on the computer and laughing and calling me over endless times to see. She used to call you over to see, too, when you were here.

Earlier today Abi finally polished off Adantino in time for Piano Guild last month. I can still see you sitting next to her, still hear your voice encouraging her that she could do it, just break the piece down into smaller pieces, take each note at its own face value, then put them back together again. Today she pulled it off and played it beautifully, and was so proud of herself. I could hear your voice saying, “I knew you could do it! I just needed YOU to know could do it!” And then you would have followed it up with how this would apply to her whole life. She, at age 12 would have rolled her eyes, but she will carry that confidence you instilled inside her with her and it will make her walk taller. Since you were not there to say those words, the same words you have told me countless times in my own eye-rolling stage, I told Abi those words myself.

On Friday, Nitara will dress up in her Amelia Earhart costume, complete with too-big leather jacket, winged snow hat, and her daddy’s swim goggles holding the hat in place. She will recite facts about this brave woman who was obstinate in her ability to keep trying in a man’s world. You would have made time to come to the Third Grade Living History Museum to see your grand-daughter and you would have been proud and a little tickled.

You raised me to be an obstinate woman, too. Your methods were harsh and I lived with a great deal of bitterness over this for many years. I felt pushed, pressured, deprived of a normal childhood in many ways. But you were a single dad who became a dad way too young and gave up college to have me. You said your life had become shit and you were a postal worker instead of a doctor. You were desperate for me not to make the same mistakes as you. You wanted me to finish my education. You pushed me to become a track star so that I could have a scholarship. You made me do summer homework so I would know how to study. I was resentful and I often hated you for it. Why could I not spend all day relaxing like my friends? Why the early curfew when I got older? Why did you need to make me so tough, to raise me as a Marine the way you were raised by your dad? You did not spare the rod. Oh you certainly did not spare the rod and I welts to prove it. You did not sugar-coat anything. You told me you were making me tough. Behind your harsh actions, I see now, was fear. And that fear was born out of love.

Twelve years ago, you held newborn Abi in your arms and you were so proud. And we talked as two adults. We became good friends. And I told you how hurt I was about some of the things you said and did to me, and you said you were sorry in your own proud, round-about way many times over the years. I’m glad we were able to bury the hatchet, so to speak. I’m glad the last twelve years we were able to be good friends as two adults. Forgiveness is a powerful thing. So is regret.

My regret is that I didn’t call 911 or just drive you to the hospital. You were so stubborn! You said you can handle the asthma, you know more than the doctors, you have had it your whole life. You didn’t want to go to the hospital and that was that. I am a nurse, but what do I know, right? I called you every day to check in with you. You promised to see your doctor and tell him about your asthma attacks. My last ten text messages to you were about going in to get your asthma treated at the hospital. You treated me like I was nagging but I should have just somehow forced you to go to the hospital. I could hear your breathlessness on the phone and I begged you to go in over the next couple of weeks. But you said no, you could handle it. You just needed time. Famous last words, which I have read over and over on my phone.

Your heart stopped and was restarted eleven times. I then learned from your family doctor that you did not tell him how bad your asthma was lately. And you never told us how very bad your heart had become. And that you decided not to get a stent put in. On the way to the hospital that last day, it started to snow. In Phoenix, Arizona. Real snow, thick fluffy clumps of it so that I had to turn on my windshield wipers. By the time we were in the parking lot at the hospital the girls’ tears had turned to whoops and hollers as they spun around with arms out wide and tongues stuck out to catch the flakes. Dad, were you trying to make your girls smile? Were you sorry you did not get help? We slipped and slid our way into the hospital and the laughter stopped. Taking the girls to say goodbye to you was hands-down the hardest thing I have ever experienced in my life. And I did not have an easy life, which you well know. Hearing the girls wail in such deep pain, hold your hand and hug you and you could not squeeze their hands back or tell them it would be okay. Because it was not okay. Not at all okay.

You had a breathing tube down your throat, tubes and wires all over the place, and I was so mad at you for causing this pain to my girls. You could have at least bought some time for us to say goodbye. Sometimes I think you were slowly committing suicide. Between the carelessly uncontrolled diabetes and weight gain, the undisclosed heart problem, the asthma that you “could handle.” You have had dark moods your whole life. Were you depressed again? Were you listening to those talk shows too much again? Did you not at least care enough about the feelings of those who loved you so much? To spare me the pain of calling my 90 year old grandparents to tell them their son was on life support?

You thought being a postal worker was nothing special, but so many of your co-workers showed up to pay their respects that they filled the chapel, spilled out into the halls and then into the parking lot. You would not have believed it. Well, Dad, I don’t know how to end this letter gracefully, but then you didn’t end gracefully either. Just know I miss you and so do the girls, so, so much. And you were better, smarter, and more generous than you thought you were. I only wish you could have forgiven yourself and loved yourself as much as I forgave and loved you.

DS, age 39

Hey,

Since we’re here, I guess I’ll tell you a story, about how we first met.

You might not remember this, but the first time I saw you was the first day of school last year. You were a Freshman and were a little new to our school, so you ended up in my 1st period Math class instead of your math class. I looked back behind me as I always do every year to see who was in the class and when I saw you, I thought to myself “Mmm…He’s kinda cute.” But I didn’t think much into it cause I figured you wouldn’t ever feel anything for me.

Little did I know at the time, that was the day I began to fall. Every day from that moment, I fell deeper and deeper in love with you. When I finally brought up enough courage to ask you out, risking almost everything in that one simple yes/no question, I hit rock bottom. To my fear, you had rejected me in the most kindest way possible. Despite having my heart broken and my mind confused, I couldn’t let myself to stop loving you. So, on that day, I promised myself that, though are not mine to fully love, I’ll try anything and everything to make your life any easier than it already was. I don’t want you to feel alone.

You might be thinking, “How is this related to what I’m about to do?”
Well, I can explain.

Right now, you’re standing here, about to do something that not only changes your life but everyone’s lives, because you are feeling alone and as if no one understands you or what you’re going through. But know this: everyone here wants to help you, telling not to do this. But they don’t understand. Because your entire life you always felt that you always did the wrong thing or said the wrong words. Which probably makes you feel no different now when they are telling the same thing again, that you’re doing something wrong.

I’m not like them. I know what it’s like to not have someone understand you, what it feels like not to have someone on your side.

What I’m trying to say that, if you decide to end it all now, I won’t stop you. Instead, I’ll stand right next to you. I’ll take this fall WITH you. To let you know that you have a friend that will go through this with you. So you won’t be alone. Not with this.

So. We can do one of two things. We can do this together…Or not all. Whatever we do, I’ll have your back.

Your one friend that will always love you, age 18

Dear Shelton, 

The first sentence was the hardest. The blinking cursor waited patiently as I stared at the blank screen, building up the courage to type your name. So far you have just been the anonymous ‘Lover’ in front of whom I’ve been stubbornly refusing to place the ‘ex’. This isn’t the first letter I’ve written you; this isn’t the first letter you will not receive, either. I’m plagiarising my own thoughts here to give them some semblance of coherence.

I’m not okay. It’s been months since you left me (I count the days still, for what purpose I do not know, this isn’t the rabbit hole I want to wander down). I still have that recurring dream where I’m drowning in a tumultuous green sea, reaching out to you at the shore but you cannot hear me. Apparently green is the colour of your heart. I still wake up crying in the middle of the night. My friends are very rational, something I used to be, they analyse and dissect the frog of my feelings and offer the age old wisdom, “Time heals all wounds.” I’m afraid time’s inexorable passage has done nothing to dull the pain. Sometimes the hurt is staggering; sometimes I have to just stop because my bones feel like old ruins crumbling atop an abandoned hill covered with history’s muddy footprints. 

Remember how I said I will forever try to re-enact ‘us’? You’re still the smile I search on the faces of men who came after. Remember that time in that hotel room, tucked away in London’s back streets and Andy Allo’s song ‘This Bed’ came on and you smiled when she started singing, “Is it too soon to tell you I love you?” I swore then if I were to blow that smile like dandelions in the wind, all the wishes in the world would come true. I’ve been on my knees praying to a God I don’t believe in, asking for some kind of vision, but mine never did come true. There are no more candles left to blow out.

I go out on dates and flirt and act nonchalant and indifferent as if I’ve written you off as a regret to be realised after a drunken night out. Well, I don’t drink. And I don’t believe in regrets. We were perfect. We are perfect. I’ve told everyone I’m over you. I lied. I would still drop the world if it meant we had any chance. Is that pathetic?

I fear I will eventually lead a happy, fulfilling life, but. You’ve got an irretrievable part of me now, whether you want it or not, and I will never be able to love again. I said I will fall in love again. I lied. I just wanted to see whether you cared. You don’t. I know you don’t love me and I feel so angry with myself for being so disbelieving. If we hadn’t unraveled each other during those long nights, shared our atoms until we were one, made love to each other’s thoughts, maybe then it would have been easier. I could believe you when you tell me you don’t love me.

When I was with you everything within me was illuminated. I felt like I had swallowed the sun. Now I’m all burnt inside out and I don’t know how to go on. I don’t have the strength to do this. I miss you like my left arm lost in a war. The phantom limb. You’ve turned into the ghost that rattles behind the closed doors of my mind.

I write poetry about you still. I promised I would never put pen to paper again if it meant I could have you. Now it’s all I have left.

She’s not good enough for you. I defy you to find the same happiness with her that you did with me. I want you to be happy. More than anything in this world. 

You think I’m being dramatic. I guess you never did understand. Heartbreak is terminal.

Me, age 24

Dear striped shirt boy,

As the years go by, your name has escaped my mind but your kindness is something that I will never forget. 

There I was, crying because I’d been abandoned (not really, later my parents told me that they had their eyes on me the entire time) in the middle of the park. All I saw were strangers around me and I was terrified. Then you, the only one brave enough to walk up to a crying seven year old and ask the question, “Are you okay?” You, with your burnt blond hair and your green and blue striped shirt. 

“ I’m fine,” I replied, pulling what confidence I had left together.

“You don’t look fine,” you pronounced, and I glared at you. “Here, let’s go play,” you said as you offered your hand to me. As we walked to the swing set, I looked at the hand you guided me with, thinking how nice it was of you to walk over to a crying girl and ask her to play with you. As we played together, time seemed to fly but you still played with me, no matter how bossy I was; just two seven year olds slithering through the play structure. 

I knew that when I was “found” our fun would stop. Still, when it happened and I had to go, I was heartbroken. You had done so much for me, and now I was leaving you. But I had no choice. I said goodbye, and left you swinging on a swing.

Though I never saw you again, you influence me everyday. I try to be as caring and generous as you were. You gave me so much: a hand, a smile, a friend, and all I gave you was a goodbye. I look back now and wish I’d told you, “Thank you, this means a lot.” Or something along those lines. Even though I never got to say it, I want to thank you. What you did for me that day is forever in my thoughts. 

Thanks.
T, age 14

Dear Adam,

It’s been eight months since you passed away. I miss you so much. A lot of things have changed so much since you left. I got to know your awesome kids more. How your kids are so much like you. I stare in awe every time they say something cute. We (Rita & I) finally granted one of your wishes; we got our boys to finally play together. Adam, you would have loved this: they sat and played marbles. It was unbelievably cute.

With your passing, I have become a better friend to those how I care deeply for. I have told people how I really feel for them. Something that was so foreign to me before. You know, I replay that night we were coming home from a night of drinking when I spilled my guts out to you. That I loved you and I regretted not going further in our relationship besides being best friends. You looked at me like I was crazy and said nothing. l laughed it off. Maybe it was my intuition, knowing I wouldn’t have you in my life for very much longer, because you were gone four months later. I also remember you telling Josh to take care of me every chance you had. He is, Adam. He is.

I do wish I had one more chance to hug you or high five you. I miss you so much, my best friend. Save my seat, Adam, because when we are finally reunited I am going to have a lot of stories for you.

Your friend, age 33

Dear Dad,

I treasure those many days I spent with you at the hospital. I did not know it then, but they were like little gifts from god. I now see how blessed I was. I would give my right arm today just to have one of those days back.

I’m not sure why, but I have so many things that remain in my mind that I wish I did, or didn’t do; things I wish I said and especially things I wish I didn’t say.

I should have told you the truth from the very first day we knew. I should have told you that you were going to die, and die soon. Perhaps your last days on this earth would have been different. Maybe instead of spending every day wishing and hoping that the doctors would be able to cure you, perhaps you would have gotten your emotional and spiritual affairs in order, and perhaps leaving us all behind would have been easier for you to bear on your way to the light.

I’m sorry I did not tell you the truth. I thought I was protecting you, but at the same time I was honoring Mom’s wishes not to tell you. She always said, and still says, that you did not want to know, and that we were honoring you by not telling you. Was she right? Sometimes I think that she knew you better than I, so she must have been right. On the other hand, I’m so angry with her for not telling you for her own reasons. I will work, however, on forgiving her, because I know that is what you would want.

I miss you more than my words can express. I am very grateful for having you in my life as long as I did. You inspire me to be a better person every day. I love you!

Your loving daughter,
Judi, age 47

Matt,

I should’ve kissed you yesterday. 

Love,
Quinn, age 15

Dear Mom,

Thank you for doing the hardest job in the world and raising me. I never got to tell you how strong you were and how incredibly proud I was to be your daughter. That you inspired me to be strong and independent. I marvel at you being a single Mom at 26 and raising me while working full-time. How I’ll talk anyone’s ear off that will listen about you and how great a Mom you were. You left big shoes to fill. You taught me how to stare down the things that scare me, never let people see you sweat and how to grab the bull by the horns and give it all you’ve got.

You showed me the importance in loving people and loving them fully. You taught me invaluable lessons on time, how to use it most wisely and how not squander it. That we are only given so much of it and to never take a minute of it for granted. Never take anyone for granted and never forget how people treat you, good or bad, and respond accordingly. Thank you for instilling in me the importance of education, pushing me to do better and seeing me graduate from college. I know this was a huge deal for you. I wish in the end I had asked you more questions. Your generosity was immeasurable so much so that people will still tell me about the things you did for them. You gave not only of yourself, but your time and love.

Even seven years later, it still stings to think of the things you will never be able to see and how much I miss you every second of everyday. You were truly my best friend and the person I would go to with anything. I know even now that you’re still here and pulling strings to make things happen for me and I appreciate all the support and love I still feel from you. If I can be a 1/10 of the women you were I will consider myself a success. I never got to tell you but losing you was like losing a piece of myself, that’s how very much I loved you. I love you to pieces and I’d tell you a 1,000 times a day if I had the chance. Thanks, Mom, for being the best, being my friend to the end and showing me in 23 years more than many people learn in a life time.

Love,
Sarah Kate, age 30

Uncle Kermitt,

I don’t know where to begin. You were in my life for 16 years, and in a split second, you were gone. There’s that saying that says time heals all wounds. Well whoever said that must not have had a very big ‘wound’, because even i know that’s not entirely true.It’s been almost eight years since you took your own life, but when I close my eyes and think back to that time, it feels like just yesterday. The world made perfect sense up until that point, and most days I didn’t have a care in the world. Something changed within me when you died. I grew up, and I realized that the world makes absolutely no sense, that people die at the drop of a hat, or the pull of a trigger, and nothing or any amount of time will take the grief away. The grief comes in many different forms. Sometimes it’s tears, sometimes confusion, every once in a while it’s anger, occasionally it’s a numbness, but most of it is a hurt so deep inside my soul that I literally feel physical pain from it. Only this type of physical hurt doesn’t have an over the counter remedy, or a ten day treatment plan. It’s a hurt I have to ride out and hope fades away after a while.

So much has changed since you left. Parts of our family aren’t as close as they once were, while others that weren’t close before, are inseparable. In a way, many of us were brought closer after your death, but none of it replaces the part you played so well in our family. You had a big heart and loved all of us so much that I think you may have loved a little too much. You were easily disappointed by the actions of others, and I think overtime you lost hope in a lot of things and in a lot of people. You treated me like your own daughter, and you were definitely like a second dad to me, always so encouraging and impressed with me when it came to volleyball and my grades in school. You were like that with everyone, though. It’s hard to believe that we have all lived the last eight years without you being a part of it, and it makes me sad that you’re missing out on so much.

If I had the chance to talk to you, even if for a second, the first thing I would say is I’m sorry. I’m sorry we let you down. I’m sorry I hung up on you when you called a few weeks before your death, looking for the wife that I was supposed to say was not at our house. I’m sorry you felt so alone and abandoned that the only course of action you could take was to commit suicide. I’m sorry that I or someone else was not there to tell you how important you are, loved you are, and that no matter what you were facing, you would get through it and find the light at the end of the tunnel.

I would also tell you how much you meant and still mean to me. How much it meant when you complimented my hair, my grades, or the dives I took on the volleyball court. How much it meant to me when you stuck up for me when my dad and I would argue. How much it meant that you’d offer to take me somewhere if I needed a ride. How much I appreciated when you’d stop by our house just to chat, but you always brought us a sweet treat like a candy bar or ice cream. And how much I loved when you sang “All Brianna wants for Christmas is her one front tooth” even though it embarrassed me most if the time.

Above all else, I’d tell you that I love you and let you know how terribly missed you are.

I know one day when we meet again, none of what I would have said will matter, because I’ll be happy to see you again, and so overjoyed that those words won’t be important. But for now, these are the words that help me grieve your loss, and cope with the fact that you’re no longer here. 

Love,
Brianna, age 24

Jordan,

We all lose people. We all lose touch with someone, something. This is not a bad thing, it is a part of human evolution, a natural part of life. But sometimes nature doesn’t nurture, and it hurts to lose. The most painful losses of all are the ones that we don’t realize. The process of losing ourselves. They say that when a door closes, a window opens, and I think that every once in awhile, a little piece of you gets caught in the door, and shut in, never to be retrieved again. You lose a part of your self.

What if you could go back and collect all the pieces, though? What if you could reconstruct yourself at three years old. When daddy coming home was the highlight of the day. When the hardest decisions in life were whether to watch Sleeping Beauty or Snow White. When you could change your outfit ten times a day without anyone caring. Back when you sang “Jesus Loves Me” at the top of your lungs from the Wendy’s bathroom, with the unashamed faith of a little girl. Back when you were the epitome of self-confidence, working your way from the back of the risers to the middle of the stage for an impromptu solo during church.

But then you lost some of you behind those doors. Years passed, you began school, and turned four, five, six, seven and eight. You didn’t sing “Jesus Loves Me” in public any more. You quickly grew out of the stage when you were six, and always excited for Wednesday’s when we got to sit with the Special Ed kids at lunch, and on other days, you would find someone who had no one else. But then more years passed,you no longer sat by the lonely kid at lunch, but with the same friends everyday. While you lost some of your tenderness, you also started something new. Those friends that I sat with at lunch made up the Fabulous Four. Lindsay, Sydney, Ashley and Jordan. You all grew so close, you thought you guys could never break or bend.

There was a special snow dance that you performed to encourage snow weather, choreographed by yours truly. When it was cold outside at recess, we would all hold hands and roll up into a human cinnamon roll, taking turns on the inside to warm up. We had super secret special folders that Lindsay’s mom scored for us; they were actually old medical charts, and inside them we had our motto, “No matter what, we show love.”

It all fell apart when we stopped showing love. The Fabulous Four quickly deteriorated, being lured toward other things. Tragedies wedged walls between us, and it wedged a wall between myself and the girl who always wanted to show love. And today, I thirst for the bold faith that allows me to sing “Jesus Loves Me” anytime and anywhere. I long to tell that little girl to never stop singing. I long to tell her to never stop becoming so preoccupied that daddy coming home isn’t special, because it is. I want to tell her to always pick Sleeping Beauty, and to take advantage of the time when that’s all her days were filled with.

I applaud that little girl who never doubted herself, or her faith. I need to tell her to always believe in herself, because that can get her through anything. I so want to tell that six year old to keep sitting with the outcasts and weird people, because they are the people who really need someone to sit by them. I want to tell the Fabulous Four to rejoice in friendship, and to always fight to make it work. I need to tell that eight year old Jordan to get her butt back in that car at Sydney’s mom’s funeral. I would tell her to grab that card that reads, “‘For I know the plans I have for you’, declares the Lord.’ Plans to prosper, and not to harm you. Plans to give you a hope, and a future.’ Jeremiah 29:11”, because it looks like she could really use that card right now. I would tell her to always cherish the old friends while welcoming the new. If she had found that balance, things would have been a lot different.

But, being a logical person, I know that right now I am writing to no one. That girl, those girls, are long gone. But there is also a saying that goes something like, ‘You can’t move forward until you look back.’ So now I want to move forward and be able to not look back with regrets. You remember your past to learn from it. Here’s to moving forward, learning from the past, and taking a little something from it, too. Tonight, when dad gets home, I am going to give him the biggest hug in the world.

Here’s to the future,
Jordan, age 14

Dear D.,

Nearly two years have passed since we last saw each another. You unloaded my bags at the airport curb, kissed me on the forehead, looked into my eyes, and said: “It was nice meeting you.” I succeeded in not looking back as you drove away and then proceeded to board the plane that brought me out of my dreams and back to reality.

For the longest time, it seemed totally senseless that someone like you would enter my life only to exit it so swiftly. Yet, with the advantage of hindsight, I have come to realize that our paths crossing and uncrossing acted as the catalyst that was necessary in order for certain key changes to occur. Somehow, I have managed to acquire a spirit of thankfulness for the way that everything unraveled, even though I wish that it all had gone very differently.

Soon I will go to live in that bayside place where one autumnal morning I first saw your face, but perhaps I will never be able talk to you again. However, here in this letter all things are possible and I can write whatever I like: which is that you are both within and without the most beautiful boy that I have ever met, and that you will always carry my heart around with you wherever you go or whoever you see or whatever you do.

Yours always,
S, age 23

Dear You,

That morning, just moments before I went out the door, I felt a slight twinge that something was wrong. You were sitting in the living room chair watching TV as I gathered my coffee and my car keys. You were sitting almost perfectly upright with your back to me and your head stiff. When I said goodbye and came over to kiss you, it took you moment to snap out of the daze you appeared to be in. We kissed eight times, not three or six because of my silly superstition, and then I went off to work. Maybe if I stayed home that day we would still be in our tent fort together.

It was a mundane Tuesday and it was the day of our last kiss. I was told what had happened just a few hours later while on my lunch break. Immediately my legs froze. Everything froze. Every night for five years going to sleep while holding my best friend and my wife in my arms was now gone in an instant. If I had stayed home from work that day, I probably would have told you that my stomach dropped and my heart broke every time I saw you in pain. But I had told you that many times before. Your strength, your soulful blue eyes, your childlike innocence, your enormous heart, your smile, the hundreds of things that made you radiate, that made you turn heads when you walked into a room, that made you my sword–all of these qualities about you made me proud to be your shield. And I told you that often.

So what would I have said to you that morning that I hadn’t already said to you thousands of times before? I wouldn’t have said much, if anything at all. I would have sat next to you in our chair, held your hand, and hoped you would lean your head on my shoulder like you would almost every time we sat in that chair together. That chair was our tent fort, but it’s hard to stand toe to toe with the harsh realities of life and make the one you love with all your being, who suffers through enormous pain every day, believe that the tent fort was really there. Because it wasn’t. Nothing I could ever say or do, no matter how whimsical our imaginations, would heal that very real pain burning inside you.

I would hope in those last moments spent with you on this imaginary, mundane Tuesday morning sitting in our chair together that you would have sighed playfully, smiled and took a nap on my shoulder. Even if my arm fell asleep, or I had to go the bathroom, or was thirsty, I would not move an inch because I know you only found true relief from your pain in your dreams.

Goodnight My Love.

Me, age 38

Dear You,

I am so conflicted inside. So indecisive and confused - and with this unsteadiness comes great sorrow. All I want is to love and to be loved in the most organic way. Stripped bare of outside stressors and afflictions. A mute-to-the-world love. A blinding love. Love that deafens me to the harrowing sobs of my soul. But this distance between us makes that impossible. It turns these empowering feelings of a true connection into a query, is this real or just an illusion? You are my tears and my smiles. You make me and break me down, without intending to. I love you and yet I resent you because you’re not beside me.

What you did with her doesn’t help the situation. I know we weren’t officially together at the time and that’s something that, retrospective to when we clashed, I have accepted as not an excuse nor justification but simply a truth that should not go unrecognized. But it was her, Love, and that’s what breaks my heart and forces tears to sting my eyes. It was her. And for the rest of my life as I love you, I will also love her and know that something (anything) happened. I just wish you had told me. But most of all I wish I hadn’t stayed up that very night thinking (and rightfully so) that something was happening between you two. I wish I hadn’t told you about these speculations. I wish I hadn’t asked you over and over and over again to tell me what happened that night. I wish I hadn’t bared witness to the two of you discussing your activities in code. I wish I hadn’t seen her having a private conversation with you at night in the kitchen. I wish I hadn’t seen those messages. I wish I had been ignorant and unaware from the beginning. Because then it wouldn’t hurt so much. And then you wouldn’t have had to lie. But what hurts me the most, beyond the lying and manipulation is you told me you were falling in love with me that night. And just like that, the most unblemished of all things - love - became blemished. You tainted it before its birth and placed a question mark in its future before it had time to grow. I wish you had known then what you know now about love because I dare say you would never have uttered those words and defiled those words in the very same night, had you known.

No matter our struggles, you changed my life. You showed me love and in the most tender of ways lifted me on the back of this love until I was close enough to God to feel it, too. You were a gift from whatever higher powers lords over all and guides us over the peaks and through the valleys and I will be forever thankful. I have had my doubts about our relationship from the beginning; my age and immaturity has not helped in the slightest and I believe to be as big a flaw in our relationship. But I come back to you, sometimes in person but always in spirit, because as my gift from God, you are cherished beyond all else. And for that reason, whenever you doubt my love for you, from now until your final days, know that my love for you resides in the depths of my spirit and even in my pain, my heart’s song of you is the sweetest of all tunes and I wouldn’t dream to hear it fade away.

I love you with everything I am,
Me, age 21

Dear People of Boston,

I’m sorry people let off bombs in your town. If I could go back and stop the bombs I would. I’m sorry you have to deal with all of this. I know this was not expected for the bombs to happen.  Special people in your lives were killed. I was scared to run my 5K but now I’m not. Scary things happen with so much unexpected notice.  People got killed left and right. 

I’m sorry for Martin because he was so young.  To die at the age of eight years old is hard to imagine and I’m sure extremely difficult for his family.  They must struggle and have problems and don’t have a lot of excitement for birthday parties.  So sorry Boston, with all the moms and dads and kids and other people getting hurt.  I hope it does not happen again.  I wish that you had a chance to say goodbye to loved ones or friends and family. 

I’m just sorry to hear that the bombs happened and killed and angered people. Sorry for people in Boston.  Hope now everything is going on good and everything is safe for you. I’m very, very sorry.

Love,
Haven, age 8

Dear good friend,

It’s funny that our friendship started with one random question.
One question about a jacket.
That jacket had a logo that I recognized.
That logo I knew was a summer camp logo, from Camp Baldwin.

Every day you would walk into the classroom with that jacket but I never asked about it, until finally one day we were painting the class mural and I decided what the heck. So I asked the question that would start our friendship.

“Did you go to Camp Baldwin?” I asked.
“Yeah, my mom is the camp director,” you told me.
“Wow, that’s cool. It was the first summer camp I went to.” I told you.

From that day on, I pestered you with questions about the camp. You answered every question with ease.

I don’t think that you know this, but you were my first new friend at this school. I know I never told you this, but thank you for all the laughs throughout our friendship. I have never really had a friend like you. I just wish that I would have asked that question sooner rather than later, because maybe just maybe, we could have had even more laughs and more of those moments when we hear a word and burst out laughing. Only if I would have said those six little words, we could have had a greater friendship. Even though we had our ups and downs (never really downs), we still make the best friends ever. Thank you.

From your friend, age 14

Dear Rose,

I’m writing this letter to tell you how much I’ve missed you. I think of you all the time. Last year Howie told me Larry was taking over and that we’d move to San Diego. Even though I didn’t want to be far from you, I was glad I wasn’t responsible any longer for the house. 

I have missed you dearly. I keep asking Howie to take me to you. Larry is in charge and says, “I’m sorry, not today.”

This last year has been horrible for me. I have fallen down four times and wound up in the hospital. I have been moved two times, and Larry won’t let me live with him. The food is terrible and I have no Jewish People to talk to.

I can’t see or hear very well and, I can’t think clearly or remember well, but Howie and Larry visit all time. Howie gives me a haircut and Larry brings me chocolate. 

For the last two weeks, I’ve been in a nursing home and they won’t let me leave because I am not well yet. Today I feel very sick. I do not know why, it is not like anything I have felt. I told Larry to take me to the hospital. I said that I need to write you a letter. I think I will see you soon.

I want to live, but living like this is miserable. I would rather be with you, Rosie. I love and miss you.

Jack, age 66

Dear Alex,

You were the most amazing person I’ve ever met. It’s been nine years since I heard your squealy laugh, or watched you smile and giggle the moment you heard Blue’s Clues come on TV. But you’re still deep in my heart, and in my thoughts.

I loved you from the moment I met you, and made up my six year old mind to protect you from everything- to keep you safe. You were my best friend, even though you rarely spoke aside from the occasional “I go”, but I knew you were always listening. During the toughest times in my life, I always knew I could make you laugh and giggle, and everything was a little less bleak.

I remember when you’d be laying on your mat on the floor and I wanted to surprise you, so I’d tiptoe down the stairs only to hear you explode with happy squeals. You always knew it was me, and I’d just giggle and kick the wall. You always saw much more than anyone gave you credit for, didn’t you? I regret a lot of what you saw and heard. I regret not being able to stop the fighting from Mom and Dad, or the stupid doctors talking about you like you were just a lump. I tried my best though, and I always tried to cover your ears whenever they said the “D” word.

You were only supposed to be with us for two years, according to the doctors- but, you had other plans. You graced us with your light for six whole years and, as I got older, the more I wanted to protect you. You meant so much to me, and I’m sorry I wasn’t always there. I had to take care of Mom, and we both know how she can be. I used to be so angry. So angry at myself because I couldn’t stop what I knew would eventually come. Like watching a friend get hit by a train in slow motion, but you can’t push them out of the way because your feet are stuck in dry concrete.

I remember when Mom stuck you in that awful hospice. I hated it! I couldn’t see you as often as I wanted, and it got to me. Remember when I sneaked in through the garden? I hated that you were alone a lot of the time as you got sicker. But, of course, I wasn’t in control of that.

I’ve come to terms with a lot of things, and I even finished the book I was reading when Mom called and told me you’d passed. It was that book about the time travelling cat I used to read you. I remember the last time I saw you. You were so tired, but I wanted so badly for you to stay awake so I could sing and play with you. I was only twelve, but I think I knew that I’d never see you again. I’d never be able to hug you, or breathe in the perfume of your hair, or hold you in my arms. I wish I would have been able to go to your funeral. I wish so badly that I could go back in time and be there. I was so angry, and I hated myself for such a long time. But seeing you at the wake was too much for my twelve year old self to handle, and I came down with an intense flu. I used to think that the gods hated me; they took you from me, and now I couldn’t even be present for you? I loved you so much, and I still do. I’m so sorry that I couldn’t help you more than I did. I wanted to wrap myself around you in hopes that no one could ever take you from me. But I know that’s not how it works and it would never had been fair to you.

I’m not angry anymore, but I always miss my sanctuary. I never got to tell you, but you were my best friend. You were my saving grace, turning all of my young anger and hatred toward my life into light and love. Thank you. From the bottom of my heart. Thank you for being my baby brother.

I still hate good-byes. So…

Later Gator,
Sissy, age 21

Dear Katie,

Yesterday was supposed to be our original wedding day (4/20). I saw this on the CBS Sunday News Morning Show (one of your favorites and mine as well) and instantly thought of you. I understand your disdain and bitterness towards me. I completely failed us, and I hope you will one day think good thoughts of me and our time together. Here are some things I would like to say to you if I had the chance.

1) Thanks for giving me a second chance. I’m sorry I failed us.

2) Thanks for teaching me the meaning of unconditional love and sacrifice. I will always cherish our time together.

3) I wasn’t looking for anyone when I met you but I fell in love because:

You are an angler with the appropriate fishing jacket and flapper
You are a bourbon drinker (albeit a novice one)
You are dedicated to your family and friends
You are an avid reader
You are a dedicated Christian
You are an above-average Karaoke singer
You are a talented sales representative
You are a dog and squirrel lover
You are a brilliant woman with incredible potential
Your gregarious personality is addictive
You are incredibly witty and hilarious
You are my partner and best friend.

I miss you and love you terribly.
Me, age 41

My dear son,

It’s been most of a year now since cancer took you from me.  I had never had to deal with death before, not up close.  I was so occupied in caring for your sickness that I wasn’t prepared for your death.  I wasn’t prepared to have the biggest part of my life ripped away.  It was my job to help you prepare to die, but I didn’t know what to say.  When you needed me most, I couldn’t find anything to give you.  Somehow you were given wisdom and courage equal to the need.  It turned out that you made things easier for me.

None of it makes sense to me, even now.  Some people told me that you had gone to a better place.  You did, of course.  But it’s not for other people to say where you should be.  They have no idea how much it hurt me to hear them say that.  This world wasn’t a very good place for you, even before you got sick, and you knew that better than anyone.  I don’t understand as much about God as I once thought I did, but there are some things I’m still sure about.  As God knows my heart, I never wanted this to happen to you, and I’m sure He didn’t either.

I had never grieved before.  Once in a while I was sorry to see someone go, but that wasn’t grief.  I’ve learned that losses are all different, even among parents, and that everyone grieves in his or her own way.  For me, grief has been almost polite, waiting until I can give it my attention.  When I can be alone and think about you and think about what we went through together, it’s easy to let go and cry.  Grief is always with me and never far from the surface.  I’m not afraid of grieving.  It’s something that makes me feel close to you.  And you deserve my tears.

I’m trying to go on with what’s left of my life here, but it’s really, really hard.  I have a lot of good memories of things we were always doing together—playing with the cats, watching TV, going out to get junk food.  I want to get back to some of the Mario and Zelda video games we played together.  Every Saturday morning when I listen to “Car Talk” on the radio while driving around looking for yard sales, a little bit of you is still riding shotgun with me.

For now, I’m holding on to the good memories and letting go of the bad ones.  Good memories, though, will never be enough.  You’re more than my memories.  Someday, before long, we’ll be back together, the cancer will be gone, and your mind will be clear and peaceful and your own.  I can’t wait to get to know the real you.

Love,
Dad, age 59

After the terrible tragedies that happened this week in Boston and West, Texas, CBS Sunday Morning will air the segment we recorded about regret and the importance of valuing each and every moment that we share with others. Please check your local listings and tune in tomorrow morning! 

Grandpa,

What I would have said was that I love you. What I would have said was how much I appreciate that you were always there for me. There are so many things I would have said, but I just didn’t know how, or when.

The last time I talked to you, you were dressed in white with beeping machines all around you. You looked so weak and scared. And at the time what I didn’t realize was that you weren’t going to come home.

The morning I found out you had passed, all these emotions were running through my head. I felt like I had been holding on to a burning rope for so long, and I finally couldn’t take it anymore, so I let go. When I did, there were scars, scars that will never fade away.

When I think about you, a memory flashes into mind of those summer afternoons when I would come into the house dripping with pool water, to get a drink or whatever else my little mind had to do. You would be sitting in your red chair ready to ask, “How’s the water?” (like you always did) and I would say, “Good” just out of habit. But I can’t tell you how much it meant to me, because I never got the chance. It never really crossed my mind that I should actually sit down and talk to you, because soon you wouldn’t be sitting in your red chair anymore.

When I think about you, I see your crazy brown hair always combed back, and your Harry Potter glasses! I see a tall, strong man who always cracks jokes! When I think about you, I simply see you.

There were so many things I wanted to say to you when you were in the hospital. I wanted to give you a big hug and never let you go, but I couldn’t. No words can explain how much of a hole appears in my chest when I think about all the things I didn’t say to you. I guess now you know some of them, huh?

What I’ve been trying to say is that I love you, and that you’re not forgotten. All this time I have been regretting not saying all the things I could’ve. But now I know I can, and I did. I hope you now know…that you will always be my red chair memory.

Hannah, age 13