To You – Letter #4
January 23rd, 1997
Your tenth birthday. I miss you. I wish I could hold you right now, hold you tight and tell you that everything will be fine, that you’re growing into such a stunning young man, that you’ve just hit double digits and you’re closer to being a teenager than you are to being a baby, but I can’t.
Death is an odd thing, it reaches in and pulls at your heart. It takes you whenever it feels like it, wherever it wants. It’s the only constant in a world of changes. Things change so rapidly, I don’t know what you’d be interested in, I don’t know what I would buy you, or what you would enjoy. You’re mother was always the better one for that. I was the disciplinarian. I guess that’s how you see me, the mean Dad, the guy yelling at you all the time.
That’s not how it was, though, that’s not it at all. The things I wish I’d let you know, the things I always wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t find the words to say them to you, or didn’t feel you could fully understand them even if I did say them. I regret it, but I do love you. That’s why I would watch you as you slept, watch you from the doorway as you lay on your bed, quietly breathing, peacefully. I wish I could see that more, but I can’t.
I love you.