Dear Ryan,
I heard your voice yesterday. Usually, I can't even bring myself to look at your name in my voicemail box, but yesterday it was almost full, and I had to delete some old messages. I always do this insanely carefully, making sure that I don't accidentally delete yours - it's like cutting the correct wire on a time bomb. After I was finished deleting a few yesterday, I stared at your name for a while. Then, I had to listen. I wanted to hear you say that you love me on my birthday.
I have three messages saved from you - two are just you saying chicken in your silly voice. The third, though, is the message you left me the morning before you died - a happy birthday wish because you had forgotten to say it before I left the house that morning. Thank goodness you were so sleepy that morning - otherwise you wouldn't have needed to call me, and I wouldn't have this record of your voice. Now I just have to make sure I never lose it.
It wasn't as jarring as I thought it would be, listening to your voice. It was a comfort, at least for as long as the voicemail was playing. I listened twice. I haven't forgotten what you sound like - I remember it perfectly. Hearing it sounded like you were right there, and that I'd be on my way home to you soon. I have dreams like that - that we're just apart for some reason, and are supposed to be seeing each other again soon. But, in the dreams we never get there - I always wake up first. And then of course, in real life, I know that I won't be seeing you soon.
There are no words for how much I miss you. I know I tell you this often - when I think of you and start talking to you, it's almost always the first thing I say, I think. But then sometimes I get lost in talking to you and I don't finish - I get distracted, or if I do it at night, sometimes I'm so tired I fall asleep in the middle of it. But I do try to talk to you. Do you hear it? Are you listening? You never talk back, and I wish you would. That sounds trite, but it's simply true. I know you probably can't talk to me in the traditional way, but I wish you'd give me something to work with - some way to know that you're hearing me. If you're sending signs, I'm not catching them. Am I just too stupid? I'm trying, I really am. Maybe you need to be more obvious. But not scary. Don't scare me in the middle of the night or anything. Be obvious in the daytime, when I can handle it better, You know I can't handle scary. There's a reason that I always left the room when you were watching scary movies.
So anyway, I try to talk but I get distracted, so I thought I'd write. I'm clearly getting distracted doing that too. I'll try to do both - talk and write - more often. I can't believe I haven't seen you in two years. The other day, I drove by the church where we had your funeral. I drive by it every day of course. But that day, it suddenly struck me, with ferocious intensity, how that was the last place I ever held your hand. And I can still imagine how it felt - when I held it that day, and when I held it just a week before. I have a true tactile memory of it. I want to hold it again. I want you to come, and wrap your arms around me, and let me cry as long as I want, and support me telling me everything will be okay. And you're there - so it will be. No one can make me feel better like you could. So, now that I need someone more than ever, it's a double whammy that you're not hear to make me feel better, Everyone tries, but it's not the same. And, for this, there's really no such thing as feeling better, Not totally. I won't wake up one day and say "Oh good, I'm all better now. Glad that's over".
So, I have a few things I want to say. I'm sorry that I couldn't keep you here. I tried really hard. I didn't realize at first what was happening, and I reacted slowly. But I don't think it would have made a difference. I couldn't keep you here, but I wanted to. And I would give nearly anything to fix it and get you back. I don't beg for it as much as I used to - only when I'm having my worst days - because I know that it's not possible.
Sometimes, I think you knew that something was coming. I looked through the house intensively to find some trace that you knew. You told me weeks before that you were starting to sell off some of your collections (I wish you'd done better with that), and that you were trying to connect with old friends. You mentioned a strong desire to drive through your hometown. And when I told you about the baby, you reacted strangely. I don't know exactly what was strange, but you seemed almost bittersweet about it. I probably just caught you off guard. But sometimes I think you knew something wasn't right with you. I don't know why it would matter, whether that would make it better or worse, but I just think about it. A lot. I think about everything a lot. I'm often lost in my head.
And about the baby - she's wonderful. She's my everything. If you're reading this, then I'm sure you're able to watch her too, so I'm probably not telling you anything you don't already know, but you would be head over heels for her. She has such a fantastic little personality. The temper I could do without - but I think it's a sign of a headstrong girl, and that's a good thing. She's simply the most beautiful child I've ever seen. She loves reading books - sometimes she babbles aloud while she's looking at them, as though she's reading out loud. She knows her shapes (star, circle, square, heart), and colors, and believe it or not, she's learning some letters. "S" is her favorite. Today we learned "G". She looks at family portraits here and at your parents' house, and identifies everyone in them. She points at you and makes a "Da" sound. And Ryan, I hate to flatter us so blatantly, but man did our DNA combine well. She's perfect. It's a sin of the highest order that we can't make a couple more like her. I think of that often, and it ties my stomach in knots.
I love you. And I love you some more. Thanks for leaving me that voicemail two years ago so that I can hear you say it back to me every now and again, and so that I have proof that it wasn't all a dream. Sometimes I have a hard time looking directly at your picture, or thinking about you for too long - because it still hurts a lot. There are certain memories that make me especially sad - because I know I'll never make more of them with you. People who say that I should cherish the memories mean well, but they don't understand how sometimes memories can just be reminders of a lost future. I think about seeing a movie with you, and all I want to do is go see a movie with you. And, of course, I can't, so it's just a lot of turmoil. And to know, at my age, that I will NEVER get to do a certain thing again, is very hard. The finality in it. But then, you know all about finality. Oh Ryan, I wish I could change things so that you could come and be with your daughter, keep doing the job you loved, learn everything you wanted to learn, be with your family. You still had such a bright future. It's not fair. I say that a lot. But it's true. It makes life feel very random and meaningless. A person like you should have gotten to live a century. I want you to know what a good man I thought you were. I was married to the best man I knew. I felt so lucky to have met, and fallen in love with, such a good man. And to have you love me back.
I'm getting long winded (I know, surprise, surprise). I should let you get back to unlocking the secrets of the universe - which is what I always hope that you're getting to do. Maybe having conversations with all of the great people in history. You'd love that. I'm serious about you letting me know that you're there. Work on it - please.
All of my love,
Kate
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