Tag Archives: letter to a friend

Letter to a Friend

Dear _____,

I was just thinking about who to write, when your name popped into my head. You’d think it would make more sense to write to people who are still alive. They’d probably appreciate it, and in fact, I do owe several people notes and emails. But you are the one I want to write to. Or if I’m saying this grammatically, you’re the one to whom I want to write. It’s just that that sounds so formal, and I don’t remember you being extremely formal.

Next week is the third anniversary of your death. We didn’t actually know each other that well, but I think about you all the time, because your death was so sudden and shocking, and because you left behind three young girls. I’m sharing this letter with people who don’t know your story, so I have to explain that you didn’t have ALS. But of course you know that. You were in the hospital having surgery to fix a blood clot – – is that the right way to say it? – – when you had a heart attack. You were 42.

How has it been three years? I remember coming to your house when I was pregnant and meeting your daughters. The youngest one was only 10 months old at the time. I remember sitting in your backyard and eating salads topped with freshly grilled chicken and laughing, because you were a really easy laugher, a trait I deeply admire. Read More>

Unsent

Dear ____,
I was thinking of you today, and thinking of myself, too, in that sort of unattractive, self-pitying way I sometimes do. Don’t you just want your life back? I want my life back so desperately today. I realized something recently: spontaneous acts of affection are slipping away from me. Not all intimacy, that’s not what I mean. But the little things, the things that feel much bigger once they’re gone. To stride across a room and embrace someone just home from a trip. To reach out and squeeze someone’s hand, a quiet connection. Even to completely and totally invade someone else’s personal space while you’re watching television, so that for the duration of the show, you’re not quite sure where you end and the other person begins, and you start breathing at the same pace because it’s just easier that way.

If I could have full command of my body again, I would positively spin across the floor when the front door opened. I would take a bath, my toes flexed and my hair spreading out behind me like a mermaid’s. I would stand in my closet getting dressed, and I would pile my wet hair on top of my head in a bun, and I would pour two glasses of wine.

I miss my life. You know what I’m talking about, ____. There’s plenty to be happy about still. We do make the best of things. But right now I’m tired of compromising. And you’ve been doing this for so long. How? How do you keep your frustration from spilling out, forcing the ones you love most to back away so they don’t drown in it?

I still have my little person. Read More>