Weeping Willows

Hey babe,

Do you remember this place?  Do you remember how much Shelby loves coming here?  It was the first place that Shelby and I ever took a hike, and it's the final place, a year ago, that you and I took a walk.  I can still remember Shelby running around, picking up last year’s acorns, the few remaining ones left alone by the squirrels at least.  I remember holding your hand and just walking, letting her be fascinated by nature, as she always was, and still is. We strolled...slowly. You had already been in rejection for a few months, but you weren't sick enough yet that you couldn't shuffle along.

We could smell the dogwood trees blooming, and I remember you commenting on how they smelled so much better than any perfume that anyone had ever worn around you, and how, for a change, a potent scent didn't make you cough.

I remember being terrified at the time that this would be the last walk we would ever take together. Turns out, my fear would become reality in November..
 

God, how many times we came here, and walked the different paths through the various gardens, but we always ended up here, at the “Weeping Collection”.  

You loved weeping willows.  They were your favorite tree, and every time we would pass one on a drive, you would always comment on how much you loved them.  I always wished that we lived somewhere where I could have planted one for you.  They need more space, and our little white house with the white picket fence on a ⅛ acre city lot in Akron just would not suffice.  I wish we had gotten even just a year or two more...long enough we could have moved, and I could have planted that willow for you on the little mini-farm I always wanted to live out the rest of my days on.  I knew you weren't going to be around forever, but I had at least hoped for the chance to get you out of the city.  

We would have renewed our vows on our 10th anniversary, this coming August, right here under this weeping willow in the gazebo.  I had decided upon it on our walk, but I never got the chance to tell you.  

So, I came back here today to write this to you.  I had to come in the spring, just to remember that walk, and all the sights, sounds, and smells. Honestly, what I needed most was to sit and mourn you for awhile.  I haven’t mourned the loss of you for some time because frankly, I've been happy.  I needed to sit here and talk to you, honestly, deeply, and frankly, in a place that was one of the last that you and I shared before sitting quietly among industrial tile floors, a ventilator pumping away, and IV poles for six months, and I needed to do it alone, at least this first time.

I’m sorry babe.  I’m sorry that I didn't move fast enough in life to plant that willow for you, or to renew our vows under the little gazebo covered in wisteria.  If I knew then what I know now, we would have done it that very day. There was no sense in waiting for a specific date, because honestly, the vows I took, and wanted to renew, meant the world to me no matter when they were stated.  I guess there is no sense in renewing them now, as now that death has done us part, they can never be broken. I am morbidly proud of that fact.  

Unfortunately, we can only know what we know now.  I know now that you were preparing me, for 12 years, to be the man I am today.  I know now that, other than still being alive and healthy, you wouldn't have it any other way for Shelby or I.  I know now that I am supposed to continue my life as if you were still here with us, but with someone else that is just as special as you were, and that I can love just as much as I loved you.

I know now that every spring, I should come here, walk, talk to you, mourn you, and thank you for being who you were, and who you continue to reveal yourself to be.  I know now that the same thanks should have been given to you while you were alive.  I know now that those who deserve thanks and love should get it then and there, when I’m feeling it, and not on some arbitrary “special occasion”, because there aren't any guarantees that the special occasion will occur.

You taught me all of this, Megan.  You've taught me that I can love even more than I ever thought possible, and that my love for you will continue to grow right alongside my new love. You've brought me to where I am today, and you'll continue to take me where I'm going. In that sense, we're still holding hands, walking together, and I know you'll be there by my side the rest of my life. Shelby? She's running just ahead, taking in everything on her own terms, but always under both of our watchful eyes.

Thank you.

Take care babe, I love you.

Mike

Letters to the Future

Last week I had a blown away moment...

I'm clearing through my study to try and get it in some semblance of order ready for my university studies to recommence this week.  Since it's recycling day, I figure I may as well sort through some old paperwork and textbooks and get them out of the house.

So I begin to consolidate an accordion file Ian was using.  I knew there wasn't much in there and it could be more compactly stored to be sorted through later.

As I'm working through, I find a document envelope labelled "John 2011". 

I open it up to find a collection of letters Ian had written to John over John's first year of life. 

One is undated.  I wouldn't be surprised to find this is from around the time John was born.

One is dated 5 June 2011, the day after Ian and I's wedding, and I can see through the envelope it contains a copy of the menu from the reception.

One is 11 August 2012. Since Ian died June 2012, I’m pretty certain this is 2011, and would be the day John turned six months old.

One is 16 November 2011, around John's 9 month mark.

And one is dated 17 March 2011.  Ian's 46th birthday and the day he got sick.  Knowing Ian, and since he had a copy of the menu for his birthday lunch in advance, there's probably a copy of that in there.

All the letters are sealed, and will remain that way until I give them to John at an appropriate, or needed, time.   Ian was know for his letter writing,  and I have copies of lots of emails where he talks about John to his friends, but it's such a thrill to find letters written specifically TO John.

So as much as a surprise it was to find these letters, it also wasn't a surprise to find them. 

Somebody's somebody

source

I wrote this 7.16.2011. It's written to my husband:

I had a weird discovery today. There are a lot of things that you were to me that cannot be replaced. So many wonderful people have stepped up to help out in areas where you used to cover, and that's great, but it's obviously never the same. Even so, I couldn't articulate exactly what it was that I felt voided of completely that can never be recovered. 


Today, I realized what it was: I miss being number one for somebody. At the top of someone's list. Aside from our children, I am not the first anyone would call if there was an emergency, big news, or something incredibly funny that they wanted to share. Even my closest friends have their families or spouses that they would call on - and should call on - first when they think of something important. Along side that loss, I'm now missing the one person at the top of my list I would go to for anything. If I have something to share, I have to consider who to share it with that doesn't have other things going on to worry about. When I need something fixed, I have to think about who I know that I might be able to call on. When I need a break, I feel guilty for finding people to watch the kids. When I remember a funny story, I have to think about who might appreciate it the most. You were all of that in my life. It's hard to not have that constant go-to person to share life with. Really hard.


I miss feeling that specialness that comes with being at the top of someone's list. I miss feeling like someone needs me. I miss being there for you, being the person you wanted to start and end your day with. I miss feeling a part of something. This is totally corny, but the lyrics "I wanna be somebody's somebody" popped into my head. Thank you, adolescent teen pop music days. It's true, though.


I miss being your number one, baby.
I love you forever and always.
Vee

The Proposal

Dear Lisa,

When I get to Heaven, will you marry me?

I’ll understand if you say no.

I get that there are probably better options for you where you are, and with so many secrets of the universe to explore, I’m sure you don’t want to do them alone.  Can you wait for me? 

For some couples, they leave their spouse in their old age and the wait time for their reunion is just a few years, if not months.  You left me at age 39.  I may be down here awhile.  Will I be a distant memory or will you be the first one to greet me when I get there?

Can you tell how much I still love you?   How much I miss you? 

Can you see me struggle?  I think of you during my darkest hours.  I draw strength from how you dealt with your cancer, refusing to be the victim and living life until the end.  I use you for inspiration to continue with my life.

Am I doing okay raising our children?  Children you gave birth to - one of them during your sickness.  I’ve made mistakes with them since you’ve been gone.  And every night when I go to bed, I replay how I was with the kids.  Wondering if I am doing what you asked of me when you knew you were dying, “Matt, I need you to take care of our girls.”  Can you see me raise my voice less and listen to them more?

I am in the process of re-learning life.  Does it frustrate you to see how much I’ve figured out since you’ve been gone?  To see how better I am with my priorities; to see me understand how to appreciate life.  To treat people the way you were hoping to be treated.  You planted the seeds, but left before the flowers bloomed.  Does that make you mad, or are you proud to see your handy work of a different me?

Do you see me trying to live a life without you?  Trying to build something new for myself and take this pain and turn it into something positive?  Does that break your heart?  Or are you frustrated I’m not doing enough?  Are you sitting around a pool with all the other husbands and wives yelling down, “Come on guys, live a little!  Didn’t our deaths show you life is short?  Let’s pick up the pace! We’re bored watching all of the inactivity.  Not much gossip here in the land of eternal happiness, so give us something to talk about.”

Knowing what you now know in heaven, was I still a good husband? 

Does heaven allow you to look at all our old fights?  You know, the ones where we’re both arguing, “That’s not what I said!” “Yes, it was.” “No, it wasn’t.”  I’m guessing you can see now I was probably wrong on a lot of those. 

I can be a better husband. I can sit down and talk, to support your dreams and goals.  If you wait for me, we can have a marriage that Mark Antony and Cleopatra would see and be jealous of.

So what do you say, Lisa? When I get to heaven, let’s get married.  It will be fun.  You can wear white - white never goes out of fashion in Heaven.  We can get married during a thunderstorm – the lightening will be our candles – and we’ll rearrange the clouds so our party won’t get wet.  I’ll make Benjamin Franklin my best man; Audrey Hepburn, your maid of honor.  Martin Luther King can give the toast and Moses will lead us in prayer.

I’ll let you have The Grateful Dead be the band, if you let the Three Stooges sit at our table.  

We’ll honeymoon in a private villa owned by Howard Hughes and then buy a house with a river running through the middle, leading to a tennis court in the backyard.  We’ll hang out on our extended porch and watch unicorns drink from the river. 

Lisa, wait for me, and we can finish up that great marriage we were just starting to achieve before you left.