Thanksgiving Letter to a Dead Man

Dear Sweetie,

I miss you so much tonight. Instead of getting up at the crack of dawn and starting our dinner, I slept in, watched TV for a while and drove down to San Marcos to see my sister and her girlfriend. We had a nice, big meal, and the company was good. I even brought some left-overs home.

But it wasn’t the same as what we used to have. I didn’t get to see you waking up and smelling all the food already cooking or see the twinkle in your eye when you knew it was real and all for you. Many years, I only “put on the dog” (as you used to say) for you. I knew how much it meant to you, and I couldn’t find it in myself to deprive you of that if I could provide it.

I always knew it was important to you, but since you’ve been gone, I’ve found things that you’ve written and drawn that help me understand why. You wanted what you never had, or at least could never count on. It was a symbol of the normal, stable life you always wanted.

I miss your cackling laugh and your beautiful spirit. I miss your generosity and openness. I miss you nine ways to Sunday.

I’m moved, but not moved in. I have boxes and boxes yet to unpack. I can’t find much of anything and am fretting again about where to put every single that goes on the walls. Once again. You wouldn’t be too surprised at that, I’d imagine.

I gave your prayer cabinet to John. I also gave him some of the brass and pictures of the guru to him. He’s thrilled to have them. I thought he would be a good steward of them. I gave your tools to your brother, as well as the wedding picture of your mother you had crammed away in the guest bedroom closet. I’m going to send the pictures of Doug and Charlie to Heidi.

I also found pictures of you as a kid. I’m keeping them. You were cute, even then. By about fourteen, you’d moved from cute to hot.

I sit here thinking about all this and realize there was so much about you I’m only finding out now. Or finding out more fully.

I’m doing okay. Not great, but okay. I keep telling people I’m doing as well as can be expected, but I’m getting tired of people asking. There’s only so much sympathy I can take.

I miss you when I laugh, because I know you would laugh, too, at whatever I was laughing at. The absence of that cackle is so real that I can almost touch it. I think that’s when I miss you most.

Happy Thanksgiving. If I could, I would have made you a big old turkey with dressing and giblet gravy and everything else.

Just like you liked. Just like I liked.

Get your deserved rest. I'll see you on the other side.