Letters

There is a file on my computer. It is named “Letters To Andy”.

In it are my thoughts. Words I can’t share with him. Stories he won’t experience. Questions I will never get to ask him.

At first, the letters were frequent. They were raw and a bit chaotic. I just word-dumped as the words came to me. Over time, they settled down a bit, became a bit more nostalgic and reminiscent. They also became less frequent.

Now, they are little updates, mainly about our girl. Sometimes a note about something I’ve learned about his kids, our friends, or the life we had.

In the beginning, I described the experience of losing him. Of standing by his side at the hospital, talking and praying over him. How it felt in the aftermath of losing him. The frantic preparations, the need to get back to as normal as possible.

I asked him if he heard us talking to him while he was in that medical coma. I believe he did. I typed out questions about what his experience was like. Answers I would never receive, and answers I wasn’t quite sure I really wanted.

Over time, the entries came at key moments—holidays, anniversaries, THE anniversary, Soph’s birthday, his birthday, etc. So many things I wanted to tell him and share with him. We didn’t get the chance for them, so I had to just put them into words.

Maybe one day, I’ll put them into a book. Or maybe I’ll just leave them there.

There’s another file. For my mom.

It’s complicated.

There are questions I ask her as well. Thoughts shared. There are so many questions there that I really wish she could answer.

In between the words on the screen is a healing I had to find on my own. Not only healing from the mom that I lost, but also from the mom I didn’t have.

It’s a one-sided resolution. A coming to my own terms in regard to the relationship she and I had, and will never have.

Mid-40s is way too young to be parentless.

She never met Emmy here on Earth, or the mom that Sydney has become. She never met the wonderful man that I’m married to now. There are so many times I’ve picked up the phone to call her, and then I remember.

So, I put it into the letters.

It seems odd, maybe, to write a letter to someone who will never read it. It’s not necessarily for them. It gets the thoughts out of my head and off of my heart, into a safe place where I won’t easily lose them.

There are so many questions they will never answer.

Maybe what matters isn’t finding answers. Maybe it’s knowing that whenever another memory surfaces, another milestone passes, or another question comes, there’s still somewhere for the thoughts, the tears, the words to go.

Sometimes I close the file feeling a little lighter. Other times, I close it knowing that I’ve preserved another little piece of our story.

I suppose that’s what the letters have become for me. Part release, part remembrance, and another part embrace.

It’s a place to put the things I still need to say, and a place to keep the things I don’t want to forget. It’s a place to know that moving forward doesn’t erase what came before.

To quote J.K. Rowling in the words of Hagrid, “What’s comin’ will come, an’ we’ll meet it when it does.”

Life is going to come. New dates, new milestones, new stories to share, and even new questions.

I will share the memories, past and future, in the only way that I can, because they are all part of the story.

Theirs. Mine. Ours.

I will type out the questions, sometimes finding the answer in putting the words down.

Sometimes putting the words on the screen is your heart finally setting down what it’s been carrying.

You don’t have to carry it anymore.

You don’t have to carry it alone.