The branches are heavy with blooms. The birds are singing. Despite lingering snow and cold, the world is waking up, just like it does every year. And every year I miss you a little differently.
My children are 4.5 and 2, and memories of and questions about our own childhoods have crashed over me like a tidal wave. There’s so much I want to talk to you about. So much I want to heal with you.
I learned something really amazing thing this year: it wasn’t our fault. We weren’t broken. We were perfectly imperfect, exactly like everyone else. Actually, I knew that already, I’ve known it for a long time, but this year I really started to FEEL it. To believe it. I try to say it out loud as often as I can, so your niece and nephew can feel it, too.
I still haven’t figured out how to introduce you to my kids. I talk about you sometimes, but I don’t think they get it. It’s hard to know who someone is that you’ve never met. Actually, I tell them that I think they knew you a long time ago, before they were born, which isn’t any less confusing. R is getting to the age now that when I talk about a time before he was born his face glazes over with existential dread. It’s adorable.
Speaking of existential dread, I’m about to turn FORTY. It’s a reckoning year. I’m cleaning everything else out of the psycho-spiritual closet. It’s AWFUL. But it’s way past time. And holy shit, I’m kind of excited to see what life might be like without all that junk. I wish you’d had a chance to do this, too.
I don’t have much to add. In a dozen journals, a book, and fifteen years, it’s all been said. I will never stop missing you.
And I am 100% going to hang a framed print of this last one on our stairwell.