I still send letters to the dead. I can either blame it on my inability to let go and move forward, or I can say that it’s a form of therapeutic expression and it allows me to cope with my grief. Either way, I write letters to the dead. I inform my loved one of the goings on of our family; who’s getting in trouble, who still cries, who doesn’t, or what the weathers like. I tell them of the brief moments I see them. How during last years Thanksgiving, I saw them picking through their food, sitting in their usual seat right across from mine. Although cousin Henry occupied our beloved’s old seat, I still felt and saw their presence, glowing in my midst as if it were of the norm. And I told them that. I told them about the new begonias I just planted for the upcoming spring season, how my husband forgot my birthday again, but I don’t mention that Jackie got another DUI. I don’t want them to think I can’t control my marriage. I don’t mention the fact that last week, I fell asleep on the wheel twice. Old age, and all that. Nor did I include that I want to take the kids away from Riley for awhile because I suspect the drinking has started up again. I can smell it on her breath whenever she comes over to help me with the cleaning. Those Clorox products just have such a strong scent. Everyone keeps telling me to switch, but it just happens to be the best.
But these are little things on the grand scheme of life, the big picture. They’re just little stars on a giant sheet of black sky filled, filled, filled with much bigger, happier, and brighter stars. I do envy them, though. Sometimes, not all the time. I envy the fact that they get to disappear like that. They can drop in whenever they’d like, but they don’t have to stick around for life’s idiosyncrasies. I envy the silence. I can’t seem to find any around here, but that’s okay. Life is a giant sheet of black sky filled, filled, filled with stars.