Letters to Heaven

It's been a whole year.

And, truthfully, words still fail me. 

But still I write. 

Cause sometimes, the words give way to something bigger. 

See, sometimes, it doesn't seem real. 

Sometimes, I forget. 

Not you, of course. I mean, I don't think there's a soul that's met you that could possibly forget you. But sometimes I forget that I just can't call you up, or shoot you a text. Sometimes I forget that when I think I see you, it's just my eyes playing tricks on me. 

And it comes in waves sometimes - the forgetting and remembering, that is. 

And it stings with certain moments. Things you should be there for, in person. Like...I'm getting married! I so wish you could be there, dancing with us. Laughing with us. Celebrating with us. 

And I know you'll be smiling down from up above. I know that if we decide to have it in a vineyard, the sunshine that will stream down will be a wedding gift from you. I know that. 

...it still doesn't change the fact that it sucks to not have you there. There's no poetry in that. There's no words that can make that seem pretty. There's nothing eloquent or elegant about death. 

It just sucks.

Lately I've been thinking about legacy. What we leave behind. Who we leave behind. What are the imprints we make upon people, and how do they carry us with them once we're not there anymore?

I think it's a million little things and big things. 

See, I talk about you all the time. I didn't realize how much I do, until I sat down to write this. I have a group of students who are doing Shrek this year, and I told them about you. Schuyler and I were thinking about getting married by the beach, and I thought of you. Every time I pass certain theatre, I think of you. 

We think about you always.

We talk about you always.

And sometimes it's sad, and sometimes it's happy, and sometimes we smile, and sometimes we cry, but it's. always a good thing to hear your name in conversation.

It was always good to hear your name.

And it still is.

There's a trick with legacies, with keeping memories alive and yet, knowing how not to let the feeling of loss swallow your whole, and I think it's with words.

I think it's in stories. It's in the stories that make us laugh, and the ones that make us cry, and the ones that make us smile real big and say I'm so happy that happened. And even know the hole of loss still hurts, that memory is a gift. 

Sometimes it's about saying the words out loud.

And sometimes, it's just writing a letter to heaven.

We miss you.