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