An open letter to Kevin, six years today

CW: In these strange days, please know that this letter contains specific descriptions of end-of-life, of grief, and of the days we are living through. 

Dear Kevin,

Here we are, the morning of the day you died, six years on. I remember waking that morning and fearing you'd slipped away in the night, knowing that today was the the day. I remember the smell of the hospital room, the angle of your head, the utter focus of those moments. I remember the hospital chaplain who visited, stroked your hair and told me he always found that comforting when he was a boy, when ill. I remember hoping it was comforting for you, and wondering if you even were aware of it. I remember that I was wearing your grey long underwear top. I remember the moment your heart stopped, the slide of your eyes which had been watching me to that very moment, and the very physical pain in my own body. I remember the sound I made, unbidden. I remember the feel of your skin as your body cooled. I remember.

I remember your laugh, your smile, your touch. I remember the sharpness of your mind, the sound of your breath, your scent, the expression on your face when you danced, the shape of your legs and back as you rode your bike. I remember how much you liked ketchup, but I don't remember everything you put it on. I remember the focus with which you'd watch television, but I can no longer list all of your favorite shows. I remember how much you loved swimming but I don't remember the print of your swim trunks. I remember you liked red wine and crisp white wines, but I don't remember what kind of beer you liked. I remember your feet but I don't remember what kind of socks you liked to wear.

I remember so much and I have forgotten so much. I am losing the details of you, the knowledge that comes from daily life, and that hurts terribly, each thing I realize I've forgotten a new small grief. I know this is the way it's supposed to work, but that doesn't make it easier. I know, too, that this is a peculiarity of my own mind, my memories of you are my own and others have their own version of you tucked away. So it is.

You are still so much a part of me and yet more distant. Like the water in this photo, you are everywhere, you are letting me know you're okay, but I can't see all of the specifics. I love that the camera captured you in blue, your favorite color. I remember that.

The world is so very strange now. I keep wondering what you'd think of it, how you would manage social distancing and staying in. I know how worried you would be for your kids, your mom (now with you, I trust you're enjoying each other), your friends. It would be hard for you not to run to some of them, even knowing it wasn't wise. I can imagine you on the couch, legs stretched out, focused on the show of the moment, waiting for this to pass. Honestly, I am relieved you don't have to live through this. It's an odd feeling to hold and admit, that there are some things I'm glad you've not been here for. It feels like another betrayal in some ways, and also so true.

The whole world is learning some hard lessons about loss, grief, and survival right now. Writing this letter to you in the context of COVID-19 is surreal and difficult. I'm not sure what to say other than that I love you still.

Maybe that's what I should close with, love in the time of COVID-19. I have learned a few things about love in the years since your death (that's a hard phrase, years since your death), maybe they were things I was learning before, but they are bright and clear now. Maybe it will help someone to read them. Maybe it will help me to write a few down.

• Love with abandon. 
• Love means you will be hurt. Love anyway.
• Let those you love know repeatedly and often.
• When you lose them, and you will, it will hurt beyond words. The only way out is through and then through again, and yet again.
• Whatever you may forget, the love endures.

So it goes. I love you Kevin and I always will. Thank you for your time on this planet, your time with me, your whole self the parts public and concealed, flawed and perfect. Thank you for the hints that you aren't gone, and for the things I do remember. I love you from the middle of the middle of me to the middle of the middle of you.

One way or another, I'll see you around.

Laura

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