Things I Still Need to Say

06/02/2015 11:41 am ET | Updated Jun 02, 2016

I had planned to write all the details from that Saturday. I did do that. It just came out and it wasn't cathartic at all. It was descriptive, It captured the play by play and palpable kind of feeling that lift and beat on the screen. The very kind you liked because you said: "You're words make people FEEL them. No choice in it, they (the words) demand it!" It didn't ease any pain; it didn't process the complexities either.


It was 5009 words, 15 pages single-spaced. Well written, and my core style. Still, I felt empty and not consoled. That never happens. I may not admit it too often, but I know when I've written well. I did with that piece. (and a few others you'll never read) and I'm sure it will be used somewhere at some future point. Nothing I write, no matter how pretty or articulate or fine point I put on a feeling, it doesn't bring you back.

I can't call you even though I know that I am better talking to you because I hold my tears, I toughen up because I know too much about your plights.

I can't rack my brain for something new to shock you.

I can't watch from 20 feet away while you teach my kids the latest and coolest software or wax on about the privacy issues with Google, and how you probably are developing some new app that can archive memories and photos in some way no one has thought of. You'd have taken programming classes and enjoyed the geeks and nerdy coolness that is hip now.

I can't call or email you in a panic on days like today when everything feels out of my control, and not one person but my sister has called to see if I'm OK. I'd tell you I need you here, and in more time than I'd be patient for, you'd pull in to my driveway in some Toyota, Mercedes or electric vehicle and casually float in as if all was fine. Hiding your concern for your baby girl and her broken life.

My 6-year-old, who is your spitting image... drew a picture about you.
"He loves swimeeninyg" and music and flowers.


I can't hear you yell in that scratchy high-pitched voice: "Yabba Dabba Dooooooo.....? Wherrrrreeee Areeee Yoouuuuuuuu?" to your grandkids like you did to me and sissy. I'd cry hearing them squeal in glee and playful loving attention.

I can't compete with you in stocks, or inspirational knowledge and quotes. I bet we'd have finished that book you wanted us to write.

I can't go on vacations where we could enjoy Maui sunsets as adults, parents, and father and daughter.

I can't ask your advice and then immediately argue against it like I so infamously did every single time.

I can't help YOU. Take care of YOU. Offer the nurturing I so shockingly have realized I am really good at.

I can't say "Goodbye" or "Thank you" to the biggest part of my life yet. The man I've loved the most and perhaps...ever will.

I can't handle that I still have so much to say to you and to learn and can finally be selfless enough to truly listen and hear your truths about your life lived.

So that's hard. So much of me is lost somewhere in the spaces and energies between where you went and where I was when you left. I'm pulling down strings and pieces haphazardly in my broken openness. I am grateful for that.

I can see that everything I am today, and everything as it is has put me right here, right now writing this to you and that's where I am supposed to be.

I can see how much love I have. I can feel how much love changes things, gentle, kind, forgiving, owning of ones errors to create something better, more giving and beautiful is the gift all this gave me.

I can see you in my kids, all of them. I can warm my heart in a moment just by listing off how blessed they have made me. The lessons they've taught me are in some way a small magical gift or nudge from you, I know that.


I can see that all of us lose. We lose and get left behind by someone, in some way. But, we all can gain a piece of ourselves by choosing to grow in grace instead of fall victim to vengeance and pity.

I can see now, far later than I wished, that you and I were so similar- too similar. Our explosions, battles and ultimately beautiful friendship were born of the silent recognition of ourselves in each other. We pushed, we pulled and we tested to force the discomfort that leads to betterment.

All the memories you kept, gave, created and recorded. They are the priceless eternal love you gave to us. I played your voice to your grandchildren last night. They giggled. They listened.

I showed them your countless 8MM videos and all your close-ups on stranger women's butts did NOT go unnoticed, nor did the incredible scene of us swinging in the back yard.

(video "Who is that?"

You always told me that I came from "A sparkle in your eye, and a glimmer in your heart." I never really gave it much meaning.

Nor did I see your "Lulu....Do you know how much I love you? Do you love me? Do you really, really, really, really, really, really, really...etc. This would go on until my laughter would stop, and annoyance would set in.... and then you'd take it past that threshold!

I understand. I do the same to my kids.

But I say the following to myself now, and all the times I miss you. I put them here so I can read that I mean it all perhaps the universe can pick the words and sentiments and get them to you:

I really really really really really really really ...etc. (x)infinity love you...Still.

I hold you as the sparkle in my eye.

From this year onward, instead of the gaping hole that froze my will and gumption to live fully for thirteen years, I've replaced it...

With the glimmer of YOU and your often overlooked playful "joie de vive", love for life, all walks of people and all things.

Bye for now....Not forever.