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 Nana,

It’s been a long six and a half years since I last saw you. You were lying on the hospital bed, motionless, with tubes monitors and wires surrounding you, and my heart was shattered. I wanted to help you, but I couldn’t. The cancer had gotten very severe, and there was nothing anybody could do but let nature take its course.

I wish you were still around so we could still enjoy the good times we had, like feeding the sheep, re-painting all the toys for no reason, painting those tiny little flower pots, playing Pac-man and all those other old Nintendo games on the Atari, or working in the garden. I’ll always remember your margarine and bologna sandwiches (they were really good). I know we both enjoyed the good times and I really miss them. I never really got to say goodbye, and that’s what I’d like to say.

Goodbye Nana.
Your Grandson Jake, age 14