A Letter, Prayer, Whatever
Six years this year, your birthday just past on Sunday and the anniversary of your tragic departure is coming up in two weeks. The last few years, I kept arriving upon these moments when I thought I had made peace, “gotten over it”, you know? And there are days and times when I think of you and the pain is not so terrible, which I guess is why I can find myself under that impression. But always, always my friend, at some odd moment it will hit me, I miss you and I wish you were here. That bullet is still bouncing around in so many of us, and for most it is tearing stuff up still.
I wish you could see me being a father, a real husband and I wish you could meet Kim and the boys. I have found the loves of my life and I can say it without cynicism or reservation, her and the boys are this magical light that has entered and changed me forever. I wish you could see me sober and maybe have taken that journey with me. Mostly, I find myself today, having these moments when I just wish you were there to talk to, whether in person or on the other side of the phone. I spend some long quiet moments, often, remembering the sound of your voice and that deranged cackle of yours. I have moments where in my heart it is still unfathomable and impossible to process, refuses to register that you are gone and you will not be coming back. There are cruel moments too, usually in the middle of some great joy or very early in the morning when I actually forget and I think about seeing you, telling you some story and I have to remind myself that you are gone.
I hear some people give your mom a hard time and M too, wondering why they aren’t over it by now. Six years, isn’t that long enough? Long enough to get over the loss of a son, or the father of your child? Anyone you loved? Six years is a very long time and I suppose I understand the outsider’s perspective and I realize that everyone grieves differently. I am trying not to judge those for whom the pain is gone. The simple truth is that for some of us, there will be no getting over it, not in Six years, and not in Sixty. I looked down to see Jovu sitting in your sisters dining room and I thought I had taken a heart punch, that dumb little sculpture brought back such a flood memory. You, insane, painting the walls of that doomed apartment and the furniture, determined that you would be an artist! I had dread locks and fleas, the cat used my bed for a litter box and we could have filled the pool with all the tequila we drank. You’ll never paint again, or do yoga or cut someone’s lawn with scissors.
I am supposed to be writing from a perspective of gratitude and that is hard with this topic, especially to be honest about it. I am grateful though, grateful that I knew and loved you when you were here. I am grateful even, not for you demise, but for how it spun me far enough out of control that I had to find my way to my own grave or sobriety. I am not sure I would sober today if it weren’t for your going and shooting yourself, that said, your life is the one and only thing I would trade my sobriety for.
I am grateful that M is taking really good care of herself and your baby girl, I hope that you are watching over them and can see that amazing duo. I am very grateful that M has forgiven me for being a stupid ass after you died and for doubting her. We talk often and I would do anything she asked to help her and your daughter.
I am grateful that I have faith today, that I can believe you are out there somewhere in some form or another. That I believe these letters I write you mean something and that you somehow get them.
I miss you my friend, my brother.