It’s been a tough week for words. It’s not that the intensity has been one single beat of a hummingbird’s wings less. Or that my I miss you, my I love you , and my Let’s hang out in the car just a moment longer and talk about grace aren’t with me every single moment.
They are beside me before I get out of bed. They walk with me to the kitchen, and every morning we make coffee together. They’re in the smell of the tea tree oil shampoo that we started buying after our trip to Carmel last Spring. They were with me on the beach for sunrise yesterday when I met Rachel, who told me how she got up every morning at 4:30 from the time she was eleven to go to the pool and how she moved back to Virginia Beach so she could go into business with her dad. They’re in the bald eagle that’s been hanging around Pretty Lake this week. They lie beside me when I go to bed and turn on The Good Place, and they remind me of the time you insisted we watch Kristen Bell lose her mind over a sloth - together. They hang around for a while even after I doze off, gently playing little moments in my mind.
Oh, they’re still here. And they’re as intense, no - more intense- than they were in December.
But the words have been harder to find, and until last night, I wasn’t even sure what I’d tell you this morning.
Then a friend reminded me of how you loved me. How complete your trust. And what that did for me.
My dear Abi, all that I knew to be so, all that I remembered, however imperfectly, were yours to examine. My many, many terrifieds and my maybes. You, better than any, knew the the fifty-three years of not quites and the just shorts, and I don’t knows, and how they overwhelmed the very few triumphs and the very, very few truths I was sure of.
And yet, it felt like you treasured them all. Like you were so happy to pick them up and hold them in your hands. To smell and taste them, and put them to your ear like a broken shell that makes its way into your path when you walk beside the ocean, all alone.
Last night, I remembered times you told me how confident you were that I loved you. How you were certain of my trust, and how you were sure I would always come back. That those things were as constant as the northern star, and how precious it all was to you.
I remembered what your telling did to me, and how complete my contentedness.
It’s my turn to tell you.
That’s what this post is about. It’s a thank you letter. Thanking you for loving with the fierce, trusting, uncompromising love of your nine year-old self. For never wavering, even when you might have.
It was my joy. It is my joy.
I was looking back through the #processpirate files this morning, and found this one. It was from me to you in October 2017:
If being loved unconditionally - by even one single person -unleashes us from bonds of should,
then you're as free as the rain.
But I think I got it wrong. Here’s what I should have said. What I’m saying today:
If feeling loved - by even one single person - unleashes us from bonds of should,
then I am as free as the rain.
I love you sweet girl. You know who you are, and who you always will be.
P.S. It’s raining again this morning. Of course it’s raining. And you must be loving it.