Dear Dad,

The Sunday before you died, I had this feeling in my chest. I was sitting outside working on my capstone paper and planning my video presentation of it. It was the last month of the semester and I was finally about to graduate with my Bachelors in English. I remember sitting there and there was this moment when I thought of you and I felt it in my chest. I thought it was just you crossing my mind and because we had had a falling out, I didn’t automatically pick up my phone and call you this time. Instead, I decided I would get this project out of the way and then call you to hash things out and move forward. I submitted that paper and presentation on Monday night, planning to call you Tuesday. Only, when I woke up that Tuesday morning, I had a missed call from Nana. That’s when we learned you were in the hospital and had had a heart attack on Sunday evening, right around when I had that feeling in my chest. By the time we made it there, you were gone. I didn’t get to say goodbye or I love you or I’m sorry or I forgive you. I didn’t get to say any of it because I thought we had more time. I thought we still had a chance to work things out. I thought wrong. We would never get to forgive and forget in this lifetime and I will live with the fact for the rest of my life that I didn’t speak to you for a while before you died. We had our struggles, like everyone, but in the midst of my first experience with grief after Granddaddy died, I found anger as my most readily available emotion. I wish I hadn’t been so quick to get so mad. I’m not saying I didn’t have a right to be upset, but all the grief I was feeling went into that anger and I reacted stronger than I should have. If there’s one thing I wish I could change, it’s that. It’s that I wish I could have seen through my sadness and those huge, unfamiliar feelings to understand how limited we are when it comes to time, how close we can be to doing something and still be too late, how much you can regret holding onto something for too long. I’ve learned a lot in the time since, but the lesson that stemmed from that guilt and regret is the biggest by far and will stay with me forever. If I had learned that lesson a little earlier, I might have had a chance to restore our relationship before you died. I might have had a chance to talk to you, not in anger or annoyance, before it was the last time we spoke. While that is something I’ll forever wish I could change, your death taught me what’s truly important and it was the hardest lesson I’ve ever had to learn — don’t assume you still have time, because you truly never know when everything will end.

I miss you Dad.

Love, Bean

I pinned the card up on the bottom right-hand corner of the bulletin board – the spot where my eyes rest every time I put something in the compost bin (that you convinced me to get.) You are smiling, surrounded by your girls in a place you love. But those of us who know you best see the sadness wrapped around you. You were mourning. And now so are we.
One day, maybe I won’t ask myself the same question every time I look at that picture. I won’t wonder how it is that you will never be here, in my kitchen, with us again. I won’t think about how the last time you were here, we had no idea it would be the last time; how two weeks later, the assumption that we would grow old together shattered along with your girls’ worlds.
That day, I told my husband – your best friend, “I’ve got this. I’ve lost a best friend before.” But I didn’t. Not at all. At first, I tried to figure out why. Was it because she was sick, so we knew it was coming? Or because she had no children and every time I look at yours my mind spins through all that is to come; all the things they will do without you by their sides. Maybe it’s because I never thought I’d have another best friend like the one I lost, and then I met your wife.
As we were exchanging introductions in our daughters’ 2-year-old classroom, my friend was in a hospital bed 200 miles away, a machine breathing for her while she planned her funeral. It was a time thick with 18 years’ worth of memories, making it impossible to focus on the here and now. Even if I had, I doubt it would have occurred to me that this pregnant redhead and her husband would feature in my most important memories to come.
Parties and playdates. Beach trips and baseball games. Black tie galas and backyard barbecues. Out on your boat and in at my dining room table (the one that you broke, producing my favorite dinner party story of all time!) It didn’t matter where we were or what we were doing, when the four of us were together, it was the best time. And we weren’t done. We had plans. Boy did we.
Now we have 20 years’ worth of memories and questions without answers. We have brave smiles and inboxes filled with messages asking how your family is doing; and how we are doing. Sometimes I hear you. I wonder if you hear me when I talk to you, which I do every day. I tell you what I can’t tell your girls – how useless I feel in the face of their tremendous loss.
I solve problems. It’s what I do in my professional life. It’s what I do in my personal life. I take in a set of facts, process them, and offer up solutions. It’s why my clients hire me. It’s why I’m a trusted confidante for my friends. It’s who I am. And it means nothing in the face of this.
I cannot solve for your absence. No solution will make it easier. There is no playbook to tell me how to navigate this uselessness.
You know I can hear you laughing at me, right? I can see you shaking your head, that half-grin that means you’re deciding whether you should say what you’re thinking. That look that reminds me that I am making things more complicated than they need to be.
“He made people feel seen,” I told your wife.
I am not alone in that assessment. It is a sentiment repeated over and over by people who knew you in different ways and at different times. It’s the little things, like filling my wine glass that I didn’t even know was empty and teasing me like the sister you never had. It’s the big things, like loving my children like your own and my husband like a brother. It’s showing up even when you cannot ease the pain or mend the broken heart.
Sometimes there is no plan to show you how to move forward because everything that forward once meant is no longer there. And it’s in those moments when we can do nothing more than let people feel seen, when we have nothing more to offer than our presence, that people understand how much we love them. I just wish it didn’t take your absence to make that so clear.
We love you, my friend, and we’ll take good care of those girls of yours even when it means just sitting with them in the darkness.

I search for you every spring when the bloom of a flower first appears. It reminds me of when I was 8 years old, we were outside watering purple flowers with a pot that had my handprints painted on the side I made for my mom. It sat on the front porch of my childhood house at the top of the stairs. You told me water was just as important as sunshine to allow things to grow. I’ve carried that memory with me my whole life.

I’m now 28, and this spring when the rain came down on my life and the sunshine was sporadic, I remembered. The memory of you bloomed in my mind when the flowers took longer to pop through the dirt. I didn’t know if this season would reap what I planted. I thought I had been forgotten.

I pleaded with God, asked Him “will you please let the light shine through?” Yet the light drizzle felt like a downpour. I then remembered how you taught me to dance in the rain. You’d stand at the front door and watch me as I sang the song with my tongue out from Barney with my neighborhood friends. You stood there and just smiled at us, said we were okay if we were wearing shoes even though grandpa didn’t approve.

I remember a time when you came to visit us when I was 23 I came home from work, exhausted from the day. I was contemplating if I should book a plane ticket to Australia. You told me a story about how when you were young you wanted to go to California, no one would go with you so you told your anxious mom you were going alone. You reminded me that if you wait for someone to go with you, you might miss out on something miraculous. My favorite part of the story is when you would tell me what you told your mom “when it’s my time, to go I’ll be there” It’s a phrase you told us all the time, and it’s one I’ve adopted to tell my mom sometimes too.

When I was 24 I visited you for the last time in the hospital. Your skin was changing colors and I knew the inevitable was about to happen. Nothing could ever prepare me for that cold December day when you took your last breath as a 92 year old who lived such a long, beautiful full life. As devastated as I was that you were no longer going to be here to share your advice, I had an inner peace knowing it was your time to go and you were there.

When I was 25 and I was having moments of doubt to take the leap into what’s next, I knew you were with me when I took the biggest leap and found my wings on the way down. I fought my fear of another rejection and landed my dream job as a flight attendant. It was a dream we both shared and I feel like it connected us in a unique way. Although you weren’t physically there to see me finally achieve our dream, I know you are with me every step of the way.

The last few years of my life had its fair share of turbulence, I keep your memory alive in every flight I take and in every adventure I don’t wait for someone else to come along. I’m reminded that one day I’ll be 92 and I never know when I will take my last breath, but I hope that when I do I can also say I lived a long, beautiful full life too.

Dear mom,

I am so sorry I wrote a letter to dad before I took the time to write to you

You used to say I would put him on a pedestal, I guess in a way, that was true

See as a kid, I don’t think I realized the value of the unconditional love that you would show me

Because I was too busy chasing after someone who never even took the time to get to know me

But you mom, you always made me feel safe, I always felt like I was enough, and I never feared you would leave me

And for me, it was important to have someone in my life to make me feel that way, because outside of you those feelings were uncommon, believe me

So I think back now and I wonder? Why didn’t I take the time to show you how much you meant to me. It hurts that I didn’t show you more appreciation.

I remember so many things about you; there were so many things you did for me. I mean you always would put me first, without any hesitation.

So when I think back two months before you passed, I recall sitting on the edge of your bed in the nursing facility before my flight home. As I hugged you goodbye, you asked me a heartbreaking question…

You asked, “Did I do a good job as your mom?” At that instant, I felt so much regret and guilt that it literally pained me. I mean you of all people should never be second guessin’

I answered you of course and said, “You were the best mom a son could ask for.” But at that moment, all I wanted was more time. Time to travel back and be more present and connected.

Time to say, “Yes,” when you used to ask me to come downstairs and watch TV with you, instead of constantly leaving you rejected.

A chance to hug you tighter and longer than you hugged me, instead of that half ass teenage boy hug I would give you

A chance to allow you to give me a kiss on the cheek, whether I was in front of my friends or not. Matter of fact instead of just one kiss, you could give two.

An opportunity to say, “Thank you for protecting me.” While you may have been a wee bit overprotective. I always felt safe in your presence; you were a fucking mama bear

I just want to tell you, “Mom, you are beautiful.” From your sincere eyes, to your infectious laugh, that I don’t give a fuck swagger, and your curly red hair.

Time make you dinner, clean the whole damn house and the yard. It’s the least I could do; I mean you worked two jobs for nearly 14 years straight.

Time to buy myself a new suit, buy you a new dress, and treat the woman who loved me no matter what, to a fancy dinner and a mother/son date

Time, mom, now that it was time to say goodbye, I selfishly wanted more time. But it was time for me to catch my flight. I can hear you saying one more time, “It’s okay baby. I know you loved me and I just wanted you to be happy. That’s all.”

I thought I would always have the time mom, and then I didn’t. Poof, I lost my hero, the best mom a son could ask for. I wish I would have taken advantage of the time before I got that last call.

So now that your restin’, and second guessin’, I need you to know, without question, you were an incredible mother

You were my mom, my dad, my friend, my protector; you were like no other

Love,

Your Baby Boy

P.S. When my boys get sick, I make sure I rub their backs just like you would rub mine

You don’t have to worry about a thing mom, I had an amazing role model, so me and your grandbabies, we’ll be just fine

I can’t believe that it’s been so long since I wrote to you.

I wonder when we stopped writing to each other. Was it around the time I came to stay with you? I remember I gave you such a hard time for those few months. I thought your ideas were archaic, your habits boring, and your faith blind. And now I find myself making the same choices I once ridiculed you for. Your habits, your ideas, and your faith have become mine.

I can see you smile.

I loved spending time with you. When I was young, you’d tell me stories about kings and dark forces, about love and peace. When I grew older we talked about sports, fashion, and academics. Talking to you was like talking to my best friend.

With you, there was no need to pretend, because you had seen me at my worst.
With you, I never felt small, even when I had made the same mistake again.
With you, I never worried about being misunderstood, because you made space for all the versions of me.

My most favorite moment with you was a phone call. I had just had my heart broken, and somehow you called me exactly as I was sitting on the steps crying my heart out, questioning everything around me. As you tried to make sense of what I was saying between sobs, you told me not to worry because the Universe had my back, that ‘it’ already knew what and who I needed in my journey.

When everyone thought my spirituality was a passing fad, you comforted me using my language. I never told you how grateful I was for being by my side. You’ve accepted parts of me that I am not sure even I have accepted.

It’s easy to see now how many moments passed by me where I could have loved you more, where I could have said thank you, where I could have made more memories with you or made you more comfortable. But I am realizing that we get so lost in the imperfections in life, that it eclipses the parts of our lives that are actually worth treasuring.

You were my treasure. My best friend.

I hope you know how much I love you.

Dear Dad,

I’m sorry I didn’t speak at your funeral. There are so many things I wish I would have said, but the grief had a chokehold on my vocal cords. Some say that a sudden loss like yours is paralyzing to those left behind, but for me it was excruciatingly silencing. I’ve been rattling around in that silence since you’ve been gone, filled with an overwhelming sense to share my memories of you with the world – yet emotionally unable to find the words. Much worse than writer’s block, this pain is a writer’s prison.

There is a picture I have of us from the day we went to the city to get your passport. It was a blustery, unforgivingly cold day in mid-November. You called to remind me to wear layers and I implored you to do the same. It was early in the morning – much earlier than I would have preferred – on my day off. My teeth were chattering as we stood on that platform waiting for the train, and you looked over at me and whispered, “Thanks for coming kid.”

I remember every detail of that day. Stopping for a piping hot coffee and buttery croissants to defrost our insides – and to kill some time because you got us there an hour before our appointment, as usual. The tedious hours spent in a dank municipal building, waiting for our number to be called. Dodging unrelenting icy wind needles as we walked for blocks to find a place for lunch. Unknowingly ducking into a vegetarian restaurant and watching you navigate the menu with no complaints. Ordering a glass of potato vodka and toasting to our adventure.

We sipped on more drinks at Penn Station before heading home and both fell asleep on the train, content with your newly acquired passport in hand. I snapped a blurry selfie of us in the parking lot at the train station once we arrived home, and your smile in that picture still makes my heart sing.

Here’s the thing. There was nothing incredibly unique, special, or significantly profound about that day. And that’s just it. You made even the most mundane and sometimes terrible tasks seem enjoyable. There was never a moment that I was in your presence when I did not feel safe and appreciated and loved. Unconditionally loved. In a world of chronic distractions, you were persistently present, you always showed up, and you loved. Admittedly, we laughed a lot too.

The Christmas before you passed was a weird one given the COVID restrictions, and I recall telling you I didn’t think it was a good idea to do our traditional holiday dinner and shopping routine. “Listen to me very carefully,” you said in that stern even-keeled tone that ignited fear in my sternum when I was younger. “This is a tradition we have upheld for over 30 years and there is no way we are stopping now. Wild horses will not keep me from sitting at that table with you tonight.”

And so, at your insistence, we shopped. And long after the mall crowd died down, and the rest of the world returned home to wrap their gifts, we ate. And of course, we drank. I am so grateful for that because unbeknownst to us, it was the end of our tradition. The wild horses were on their way, we just never saw them coming.

I know for certain there are many traits I inherited from you. My big teeth, sarcasm, and wit, a stubborn belief in our convictions, a proclivity for shopping, a fond appreciation for a smooth drink, an indelible generosity, an indisputable work ethic, and a fierce loyalty to the people we love.

I am a bit softer around the edges than you and much more emotional, but what I will always admire about you, and what you have inspired me to be, is the type of person who shows up. For their friends, for their family, for their people. Because you always showed up. In big ways and small ways, in grand gestures and incremental acts of selflessness. The rest of us were just lucky to be the beneficiaries of your presence.

Our world is not the same without you in it.

I’m sorry I didn’t speak at your funeral. Even now as I write this, with the hopes of feeling that burden lifted from my heart, I know it is not enough. But for you, the one person who believed in me when you didn’t always agree with me, who encouraged me when I was incorrigible, who loved me more than the human mind can fathom, and who always showed up… I write one last love letter and hope you understand.

I’m so proud you were my dad.

xxox,
Your little girl

Hey Mom,
I miss you. I’m glad you went on to your new life, and I miss you here.
Sharing your last months and weeks with you hurt. I know you were born
into waiting arms. In the place and time where your new life eagerly awaited
you, in the way all new life is welcomed.
You were the most complicated person I will ever know. You gave the best
gifts and delivered the hardest blows. I will always choose to remember you
as the mom who wanted the best for her family. You did, at any cost.
You were raised in a difficult situation. It left you with scars that you hid.
With trauma that you ignored. With demons on one shoulder and angels on
the other. You raised your sisters. You kept house, kept order, kept peace.
You kept up appearances. You didn’t ask for help, would there have been
help? Mom, I want you to know Grandma was not your responsibility. Mom,
they failed you. Then you failed me. And I love you.
I can’t imagine why you put up the colored curtains. The shear panels that
served as filters so not a single person could see the burden that you bore.
Mental illness is a cruel mistress. You hid her well behind the filters of a
perfectly clean home, a Godly life, a family that looked like a fairy tale all the
time. None of us dared defy the mask we wore for you. To step out from
behind the curtain. You convinced us that we were superior. We were the
ones who did all things right. We were the family who worked hardest and
smartest, who had the most right to celebrate. We claimed the most
tragedy. So many times, I wished I could scream, “but I like muddy shoes”!
I didn’t know that winning that contest was how you kept your train on the
tracks.
I want you to know most of all how you taught me. Your volatile nature
taught me when to duck. It sharpened my sense of self preservation. You
taught me lessons your mother taught you. You taught me to love with
fierceness and commitment. With passion and loyalty. You taught me that
the only person that I could always rely on was me. The sort of
independence you taught meant people will hurt you if you need them.
Mom, it was hard to keep up. The constant push and pull were exhausting.
What you did was grind down all my rough edges. You prepared me for the
trial by fire that would give me the sharpest edge I could have.
I learned to love words and their importance from you. You introduced me
to books. You didn’t care what I read; you once told me that I wouldn’t
know skillful writing if I never read bad writing. Hey mom, that’s true all
around. I learned that words could build nations, that they can start wars. I
learned that there is power in clarity, and refuge in the cloak of ambiguity. I
learned to hide in a book until any storm was over. I learned that in every
book there is a rainbow, a way out and a way home.
You were wise with experience. You were rich in confidence. You were
blessed with endurance. The very qualities that made it impossible to give
you the soft landing that I wanted you to have. There you go teaching me
again. You fought until your thoughts wouldn’t make sense. You fought
death as hard as you could, your brilliant, ravaged brain keeping you from
the poison they served you in the form of food. Your body grew desperately
weak, and through it all your brain fought for conversation, for
remembering. You lived your life the absolute best way for you. You
inspired me to keep fighting to own my life. To live my truth. You taught me
that the soft landing I wanted for you was about me. Your truth was to fight
until the end. It was about you living and dying on your own terms.
Just like you I won’t give up, like you, I will love fiercely. My house will
always be clean with books on the shelf. I will ask for help when I need it, I
will let go of the things that don’t serve me. I will let people see me fail. Your
death has given me the space I needed for clarity. In your new life you are
free from pain, and confusion. I draw you close in my memories, and I hold
you tight. These memories are free from pain and confusion. They are
memories of pure love.
Momma, keep the dogs busy until I see you again. I love you.
Chris

It occurs to me just now that I’ve never actually written you a letter. Do you remember how often we would call each other when the kids were young? Every day sometimes! Actually, I would be the one calling you because I knew you didn’t have the money to spare for long distance calls. You’d answer the phone with the typical, “Hello,” and then when you knew it was me, you’d say, “Hey!” The grin in your voice was so warming!

So let’s start again.

Hey! It’s been awhile! How are you doing? What have you been up to lately? What’s your latest adventure?

It’s weird to ask our old questions, knowing I won’t get to hear your voice responding. You would say, “I’m doing great! Just trying to help my kids get all their homework done. Oh! I have to tell you about the skunk!” And then you’d start giggling, hardly able to tell the story about how you barely escaped getting sprayed by that skunk because you weren’t paying attention. We’d laugh together and I’d ask you how these things always seemed to happen to you. You’d respond, still giggling, “I don’t know! But they sure make good stories!”

You know, I think I can imagine what your responses may be right now to our old questions.

“How are you doing?” I think you’d say, “I’m doing great! This place is amazing. Mom and Dad say hello. So do Granny and Grandad.” I would smile through the tears.

“What have you been up to lately?” “I am so busy! I’ve been helping teach the people who never knew about Jesus. You should see their faces light up! And I try to help my own kids, as they allow. They are still pretty sad and angry that I’m not there so they can’t always feel my help.” I would nod and tell you that I’m trying to keep track of them and trying to be a strength and stabilizing force for them. I’d also tell you that I’m impressed at how well they are supporting each other. You’d agree, and then get that worried, distant look on your face.

“What’s your latest adventure?” A smile and then, “The adventures here aren’t quite as funny as the old ones were. I’ve been able to meet some really amazing people. Our ancestor’s stories are even better from their own mouths!” I imagine you’d have a huge list of people you’ve met there, and I would be asking you to tell me all the details.

Do you remember how our phone conversations ended? “Even though you’re far away, what can I do to help you?” I’d ask. You’d say, “Just keep calling.” “Of course!” I’d respond. Then, “Love you!” from both of us to each other, and we’d hang up.

“Even though you’re far away, what can I do to help you?” I think you’d say, “Stay in your scriptures. Pray all the time. Follow the Prophet.” I’d cock my head in confusion. I’d ask, “How would that help you?” I think your answer would be, “Those things will keep you close to our Savior. When it is your time to leave, you will get to come here and then I can hug you again!”

“Love you!”

Tears streaming down my face, I’d tell you that I’ve already started doing those things better. I saw you turn to the Lord in the many trials you faced–family, employment, health. I would tell you that your determination, your faith, your example of service despite the challenges have shown me how I can be better. A better wife, a better mother and grandmother, a better friend, a better daughter of God. Thank you!

I love you, too!

Until then.

Dear Mom,

My world, my rock, my everything,
Every second I miss your soul,
Since the day I lost your light,
My heart has not felt whole.

I’ve wondered vallies of darkness
And sailed through seas of shame
And crossed caverns of confusion
And over mountains of pain.

On my path I lost some peers,
So all alone I conquered fears,
And through the never ending tears,
I found your gift of hope right here,

Inside my heart, you gave to me,
A gift far greater than anything.
Your little secret seed of hope,
Has help me cope with suffering.

Like a tree, I’ve grown up strong,
And it’s all been thanks to you.
Your seed, your soul, your shining light,
Is what has seen me through,

I know that all this pain,
Has all been for a reason.
It’s taught me that I cannot run,
I must embrace each season.

I promise, mom, your gift is safe,
I’ll cherish it oh so dearly.
Thank you, mom, for all your guidance,
I see my path now clearly.

I am The Tree, I am The Light,
And because I am your son,
I will not keep this gift to myself,
I’ll share it with everyone.

I close my eyes and blow on a dandelion, making a wish to have you here for one more year. I open my eyes and watch as the seeds fly around. You are not here but I feel you are near, watching over me when I cry or feel fear. You will never know when that one more embrace, dance, or moment will be the last. If I had known when I woke you would be gone I would not have let go so fast. You sparkled brighter than any star in the sky, I would give them all to hear you sing one more lullaby. My guardian angel, you are so dear. I am still wishing for you to appear, one final moment to have you right here. One day I will join you for a dance in the sky, until then I will never be the first to let go again or deny a kiss goodbye.

I lost so many; how do I choose to write about just one?
I often feel like I have no pulse, or I am numb.
I embrace the warmth of the bright sun.
This is to my lost loved ones.
I have been blessed to have a life of inspiration.
They taught me how to navigate through aggravation.
I can still feel their presence and see their faces.
How can I feel so sad and at the same time so amazing?
My angels, my lost loves, my broken pieces of my heart turned into a beautiful puzzle.
The puzzles of memories placed in a frame make it emotional and lovable.
If I could get back that one dance, that one kiss, that one hug, I would be more huggable.
If only I could go back in the past and get into that good trouble.
To my lost loved ones, please keep a place for me and make sure it’s fun.
I miss all of you, so many, too many to count, there is no way I could just pick one.
Remember to cherish the now as the past can never become undone.
A big thank you to my lost loved ones.