Dear Jen,
Yesterday I had a hard day. Since we moved I rarely wake up feeling so heavy and off kilter, but I was completely out of myself yesterday. While doing the dishes I almost lost it and the tears finally came, loud and ugly, my eyes brimming before they spilled over and splotched onto my shirt.
Sometimes I just want to crawl into a hole and die. It seems ridiculous to feel this way and every time it washes over me, I am ashamed. Would you feel like this if our roles were reversed? It seems like such a disservice to you and your memory. You are dead and I am alive, why in the world would I wish to be dead too? I should be grateful for my life, and I am, it’s just sometimes so fucking hard to understand how, HOW am I supposed to live my life without you? It is so incomplete.
Now your husband has a new wife and your daughter has a step-mother. I am so angry that this woman gets to be a part of their lives instead of you. Why should she witness all the memories? It should be you.
I wonder where you are. Sometimes I feel like you are right beside me. Do you touch my face? Are you sad when I’m holding on to the counter with white knuckles? When I’m walking with the kids do you feel the breeze too?
Last week I found the Buzz Lightyear toy you gave me as a joke. Sunshine loves it and I told her how you had given it to me. A present from Aunt Jen to me, I said.
Where is Aunt Jen, she asked. Is she here?
No baby, she’s not here. She died.
She didn’t respond, just continued to play with the toy. I didn’t bother to explain how you are always here because your memory lives with me and your heart is in mine. I’m not sure how much a 3 year old can handle. I don’t even know if she understands what she died means. But I say it because I don’t want to sugar coat it. Someday she will know more.
I love you and miss you every day.
Love, me.
