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Dear Kevin,
The days and weeks leading up to today have been very odd. It's such a hard time–the pandemic still rages, I haven't traveled in over a year, the country is still a mess post-Trump (though there may be blessings in disguise by revealing our wounds)–and I expected the days leading up to today to be awful.
They weren't.
I've been mostly okay, which is pretty uncomfortable. I'm afraid it means I've betrayed you somehow and that I've relegated you to what was, though I know you would laugh at the thought. You still are. You are in my heart and the hearts of many others. And yet, here I was, occasionally sniffly and mostly okay. It felt very strange.
I decided I needed to be alone today, so I went for a drive to a park on the Vermillion River, near the Mississippi. That's another weird thing. I don't know if you ever set foot in Minnesota, yet here I am. Anyway, I went for a walk. I looked at the water. I talked to you. I didn't cry. In years past I've gone to a movie because you so loved movies and would then sob in the parking lot, but this year with COVID, that wasn't a wise idea. And the tears didn't come.
When I was done with my walk I got back in the car and thought about you. The sweet memories come so much more easily now, though today has its share of flashbacks. I remembered when we went to the Paul McCartney concert at Fenway, and put on The Beatles so we could sing together as I drove back home, to another man, in a house you would love but didn't know existed, with a dog you would adore.
It didn't take long to start. Crying and singing and driving home, you were with me.
Do you remember?
In 2009, when we were still in Boston, Paul McCartney announced he was touring and coming to Fenway Park. I staunchly said I didn't want to go, but you kept asking. Of course I wanted to go even if I didn't want to admit it, so I bought tickets. You suggested I ask one of my old friends to go with me, but I was clear that we should go together.
Our seats were directly across from the stage, but far back. McCartney was a tiny figure, far smaller than life, flanked by two huge screens where he was larger than life. It was a great concert. He knew why everyone was there and played only a few songs from the newest album, then song after song from The Beatles, with a few from Wings thrown in for good measure.
You had never seen me like that. At one point when I was lost in the music, in my past, I was playing air guitar, utterly unconcerned that there were 34,999 people around me. I saw you smiling at me and froze, suddenly aware of what I was doing. You told me to go ahead and began to air drum. You accepted me as I was in that moment, as you so often did, and joined me there without hesitation.
You sang along with all of us, and wiped tears away at Let It Be. It was, hands down, the best big concert I've ever been to, for all that it was huge, loud, and McCartney is an overwhelming ham.
When I was driving home today I remembered us there, together, and so much more. I pulled over and sobbed. It felt good to finally cry, to feel the feelings that I suspected were there. It also felt good that I didn't need to cry for hours. That I could talk to you and feel comfort. That I was, even if sad, mostly okay.
When you died I sought solace in some online grief groups. When I or someone else would ask if it was this bad forever, someone would say that it changes. It's not that you don't miss them or grieve them, but it eases. In time you find a new balance and remember the sweet as much as the pain. I think I'm getting to that point, uncomfortable though it may be, it is as it should be.
I'm wrung out now, as you might expect. I still love you, and always will. There is room for more love than I ever imagined. I'm missing you terribly and full of cognitive dissonance about the life I now have and the one that might have been. And I am mostly okay.
Love always,
Laura
P.S.
It's not the year we were there but it's similar enough. You can hear thousands of people singing along. I like to think I can hear your voice. I love you.
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