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July
8, 2013
My
Love,
Today
you would have turned 54, and you have been gone for over three
years. You will never read this. You will never know these words
just as you will never know so much about my life. There is so much
I would tell you, so many experiences I have wished to share with
you, and so many times I have longed for your trusted guidance and
loving arms.
I
know this is supposed to be a “love letter” but I need to first
air some of my regrets. Perhaps on the screen, on paper, or simply
out of my head they will not seem so bad. I wish I had convinced you
to get medical attention earlier. I'm sorry you never got “Up
North” for one more trip, though some of your ashes are in Lac du
Flambeau and Lake Superior. I regret not taking more time away from
work while you were in the hospital. I wish I had been more honest
with you about how ill equipped I was to manage your home care; I
didn't know myself until I saw how the nurses cared for you. I'll
never forget how heart broken you were when I told you that you could
not come home from the hospital; though I know it isn’t true, I
feel like that disappointment helped to spread the infection already
lurking in your system. I’m sorry your father wasn’t with you
when you passed; I should have made them stay. I'm sorry I didn't
hire professional mourners to stand in the back of the church to
wail, rip their clothes, and pull out their hair.
Colleen,
you need to know – I think you knew – I was ready to spend every
day of the rest of my life with you. That was my plan. And I
haven't exactly formulated a new one yet. In the weeks after your
death I asked your friend, Betsy, about how she had moved on after
the death of her Noah. She laughed at the potentially demeaning
nature of her own comment, “You've had dogs die and yet you've been
able to love a new dog right? Well, every person I've loved has been
different in a similar way.” I laughed too because I know she
wasn't comparing our lovers to dogs; she truly sees her animals as
people, members of her family. And the people in our lives enter and
exit at unpredictable times.
In
the three years and two months since you died, I took a quick trip
around the state and into South Dakota to visit places you loved and
leave some of your ashes (sorry, I haven't gotten to Hawaii yet), my
father died, your father died, your mother sold their house, she
moved to Portage, your aunt Lorraine died, I bought a house, I
self-published a book of poetry, I started a writing club at school,
I've lost about 150 pounds (with about 40 or so to go), Mom has had
the farmhouse repainted – blue, I've started to take my photography
more seriously, Joe has been a good friend – you were right about
him, I've went every year to see Marge Gibson release the eagles in
Sauk Prairie, Dalton graduated from college, eventually so did Bug,
Mikal started college working toward a nursing degree, Mikal is still
driving your old car – she is taking good care of it, and so much
more.
This
verse from “Lost” by Amanda Palmer has been going through my mind
a lot lately:
No
one's ever lost forever.
When
they die they go away,
But
they will visit you occasionally.
Do
not be afraid.
No
one's ever lost forever.
They
are caught inside your heart.
If
you garden them and water them,
They
make you what you are.
This
is a song that you never heard by a singer you never heard. I think
you would have liked it and liked her. And it is true. And all the
sappy songs about loss are true. You are gone, but the love remains.
In
my garden you are the oak tree with tiger lilies around its trunk.
Tall, strong, and enduring with flashes of color in spring and fall.
In my garden you provide shade to all and a place to live for all the
little birds. I suspect there might be a cat in your branches as
well – not the Cheshire cat Alice encountered but your cranky
Punkin cat. In my garden you are one of the anchor points around
which everything else must make sense.
Thank
you for being. Thank you for being my love. Thank you for sharing
your time.
Carney
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