With Gratitude.

Dear Babe,

Happy Thanksgiving.

This was always your favorite holiday. If you were here, you would be getting ready with Brett and trying to convince me to go get some Chinese drinks before dinner. We all knew that if your mom said 3:00 PM she really meant 6:00 PM and you and Brett relished that time to drink mai tais and zombies and scorpion bowls. Vanessa and I would complain but we would go. Because that's what you do when you're in love and you want to make them as happy as they make you.

I'm not going to lie to you, I'm finding it very hard to be in the holiday spirit this year. I can't believe how quickly I've gotten to the point that I've been dreading. Will everyone be extra cheerful and emit a joy that I just can't muster? Will everyone be hushed and ever watchful of me, waiting for me to dissolve? Will everyone go on as if nothing had ever happened? I'm not sure what would be worse. Your absence will be palpable, a physical weight that I will carry with me. Will I want anyone to sit next to me, or will I let the weight of your absence have a physical mark as well? An empty seat to symbolize where you should be.

I don't have many expectations of myself this year. In fact, if I manage to make it to 2015 with no more grey hairs, wrinkles, or mental breakdowns, I will consider myself a success. You would cheer for me, I'm sure. I debated boycotting Thanksgiving altogether. Just make an excuse and hide in my house with Vera and wake up tomorrow and start again. No one would question me. I mean, how do you tell a 31 year old widow that she has to do anything? You can't or else you're an asshole. I could totally do it. The problem with that, though, is that I'm not a quitter. And I'm not someone that hides from things that scare me (except fish but you knew that about me going in). And you weren't either. And I can picture what you would say if you were here.

"Are you really going to stay under the covers on the best food day of the year?" Just like that, eyebrows furrowed and that righteous smirk on your lips.

"I don't want to go and be happy without you," I would say with the blankets halfway over my face.

You would pull the blankets down, gently but firmly. And then you would hold out your hand and I would begrudgingly take it and sit up. "Go be with your family," you would say. "Go eat and let them hug you and laugh with them and watch football. Look on the bright side."

You were always more practical than me. You kept me rooted in the present when I let myself fly away into the clouds. You never let me go too far into the dark and stormy ones. I know you're right, that I should be looking at the bright side. Looking at all of things that I still have when so many others have so much less. So that is how I will get through today. And the smile on my face will be real. Because if I think about it, truly reflect, there is so much gratitude to hold in my heart.

I am grateful that I was able to say that you were mine for 5 years, 7 months, and 28 days. They were the happiest days that I've lived so far in my life.

I am grateful that I was loved by a man that raised me up to be a better woman in every way.

I am grateful for your family and for my family. And how they became our family. What amazing human beings we got in our tribe.

I am grateful that I can conjure the color of your eyes without a thought. They were so warm and sparkled with life.

I am grateful that you and I have the best friends possible. Funny and caring and loving and amazing.

I am grateful that I am strong, and healthy, and youthful, and resilient.

I am grateful that so much of that is because of you.

I am grateful that I am alive today and able to tell everyone I love how much they mean to me.

I am grateful that I get the opportunity to live.

So I guess to sum it up, Babe, you were right. Surprise. It can happen. Looking on the bright side isn't always so bad. So I'll smile and laugh and eat on the best food day of the year. And I will watch football. I might not understand all of it, but I will watch it. And I will think of you and be thankful for you always.

With Gratitude and Love. Always Love.

Amanda

An Infinite Number of Tomorrows.

Dear Babe,

Four months ago today, I spoke with you. Not in my mind, which is where I find you these days, but in this actual world, concrete and true. Although I didn't realize it at the time, it was final. No negotiations or do-overs - our time was over and those last words were borrowed. I wonder if you knew, somewhere inside your heart that bled for me, that you would be leaving. When you left the house that day, did you linger in our foyer and memorize everything to take with you to the world beyond?

I've had to stop myself from wondering - the wondering leaves me twisted and consumed by a puzzle that will never be solved. As the inevitable clock puts more space between where we ended and my new life began, I find myself reflecting on what I thought was important. After all, wishes can change once one walks to the edge to find there is not an infinite number of tomorrows.

I've come to realize that there are no prizes and no medals handed out when you transition between this life and whatever comes next (unless you were the recipient of the Best New Angel award and somehow forgot to tell me about it). There are certainly no awards here. There are wisps of ribbon with one-dimensional attributes. Husband. Brother. Son. Grandson. Nephew. Though those are accurate representations of certain roles you played, there is nothing there that speaks to your soul. There are no awards for Most Hours Spent At Work or Dying with the Most Money in Your Bank Account or Fastest Car That Cost the Most. If you were to receive awards upon your departure, Babe, you would've received Best Cuddling Nook. Or Most Likely to Hoard Cats. Or Quencher of All Fears. Or Creator of the Home of Dreams. I would cheer for each one and shower you with roses and kisses and whatever the fuck else award winners receive and I would sing your victory as you crossed into the abyss.

Now I find myself uninterested in the recognition that I once would clamor for. I always needed more. More money, more clothes, more opportunities, more romance, more excitement. Now the only more I find myself desiring is time. More time. But I know that cannot be and so I settle for all of the mores that make up a life. More laughter. More embraces. More kindness. More experience. More truth. Losing you has snatched me out of the tomorrow and forced me to be ever present, living moment to moment. Some moments are almost unbearable. Some moments bring an almost otherworldly rapture. All are fleeting and reflected upon as I propel from one to the next.

I'm used to yearning for you, and used to the melancholy that hovers in wait. At first I thought those feelings would lead to my destruction. Now I know that I am an inferno and all of the yearning and melancholy and missing and despair have become the fuel that has left me indestructible. I wear them like badges as I head from one decision to another. You would be proud of me, I think. You used to tease me about the trepidation that would accompany any choice I made. What would people think? Would I be judged? Would this make others happy? Instead of What will I think? Will I judge myself? Will this make me happy? I only have a couple of rules for myself now. When making a decision, I ask myself:

Is this what I want?

Is this healthy for me?

Will I be harming anyone?

If all answers check out, I forge ahead. No fear. There is no time for it. At the end of my life, I will not receive an award for Worried Most About What Others Thought. Those that loved me will give out their own awards. And they will sing my victory song as they send me off. Until then I will navigate through these waters until I find the reason I am here. And until then I will love you, and miss you, and honor you with my life.

Love,

Amanda