Dear Dane,
Roaring into year seven with not much to say.
I have found myself actually missing you this year, beyond grief and anger, just plain old missing you. It's a dangerous place to be, one that could devolve into making you a martyr, but even as I am aware of your faults, there are things about you that I miss keenly.
The deep knowing of you. Your unconscious vulnerability (you really had no idea what you were revealing whenever you got deep, which was a gift of self-protection for you, probably, but also funny and touching because you trusted me with it).
The ease of being with you. The way I was first. How home was what we made it in each other, and that it was a sacred place. Trusting you with my heart and soft places. Your resilience. Your (often annoying but incredibly helpful at times) optimism.
Life is quiet now. You were loud and filled up spaces, and sometimes that meant I shrunk to accommodate that. I don't have to shrink anymore, but filling up an empty space is lonely-making.
I am sad as I write this letter to you, which I suppose is better than the searing anger I have felt in years past, but it is harder as we enter the next seven years. I keep wondering when I get for this to be over, this grief and loss. And I suspect the answer is never, but a little peace would be nice.
Anyway. Your child is still missing you, worried she will forget the sound of your voice and struggling to make her way without your support and love. Dealing with my own grief and misery pales in comparison to watching her suffer.
But you would be so proud of our beautiful daughter. She is good and kind (and stubborn and sometimes an asshole, just like her father), and she loves deeply. She is the best of both of us, and I will be forever grateful to you for that.
Sometimes around the anniversary of your death, you come to me in dreams, and I would really like that if you could manage it. My father has been there lately, a welcome smiling face, and a shadow person I cannot identify but is a dead person I have loved. I would think it was you except you were never one to hide in the corner.
I went for a walk Wednesday at Lake Roland, quietly marking the day we met 21 years ago. On a deserted and hidden trail, a red cardinal led me down the path, almost the entire time. Perhaps that was you.
Always and ever, still loving you, and missing you.
Suzannah
