To You – Letter #5
January 23rd, 2000
You’re my teenager now. Here I sit, my eyes closed, picturing you as a teenager, seeing you as no longer a boy, but a young man. I can’t imagine not being able to see you, I can’t imagine missing you. It happened way too soon, and I want to apologize for that. It was my fault, it was all my fault, and your mother was right the entire time. She knew my smoking would ruin our family. I should have listened to her.
I imagine by now she’s moved on, found someone else. I want you to know that whoever it is, no matter what you’re feeling towards him, give him a chance. It’s not easy stepping into the role of a father, I’ve been there, I know. I was horrible at it, and it’s even harder when the child is already grown. I’m gone, and she has every right to be happy. I want her to find someone she can love, someone to make her happy.
As I write these letters to you, it amuses me that here I am dieing, and you were the one with cancer. God granted me my wish. The wish I wished the first day we found out. The day I hit my knees, the day I prayed for us to switch places, for God to take me instead. I meant every word of that prayer, and I would do it again in a heartbeat. I love you, my son. I love you more than anything in this world, and you need to know that.
I may be dead, but that doesn’t mean I’m gone. I live forever for you in each of these letters, and in everything I ever told you. I live forever within the heart of your mother, and your own heart. Whenever you need me, just think of me, and I will be there.