An open letter to Kevin, eight years on

Dear Kevin,

I am writing this on the morning of the eighth anniversary of your death. It is a clear, cold day here in Minnesota. It's cool and clear in Kansas City, too. I don't remember the weather that day, though so much else is crystal clear. Your hand in mine. Your breathless voice. Your eyes. I have vague memories of the others in the room, both seen and unseen. 

What strikes me today, this day, is how assimilating grief works. I know this is what's supposed to happen, but it feels so very strange. Way back when I was still just a skin coat of grief, tattered and dripping, several people told me that eventually it would be easier. I knew they were right though I couldn't see how. 

I'm getting there, with very mixed feelings about it. I've said this before, but it feels like I'm betraying you by being mostly okay this morning. I rarely have great, roaring cries for you now. I cry, but as often as not I can finally remember some of the good times, like when you were cuddling Toby the dog and moments after this photo was taken, he farted. We laughed. I can remember laughing with you now as a visceral feeling, rather than knowing it happened but not being able to feel it. 

Today grief feels like a deep heaviness in my body.

It is a good thing that finally those feelings are a strong part of my memories of you, not just the loss, but it also means you are more of a memory. That's hard. At the same time I am, finally, so grateful for the memories. I miss you every day and yet, here I am, mostly okay, loving you still. In many ways it feels like a profound betrayal or personal failure that I'm mostly okay. It's another one of those paradoxes we all have to live with, I guess. There is no moral value attached to grief, yet I feel like somehow there is. If you grieve too much, you're broken (and plenty of people told me that I was broken in the early days), yet if you let grief become a gentler feeling it's somehow saying I didn't love you enough. I know that's not true, but the feelings are there. What I remind myself of is that you wanted me to be okay. I promised you that I would be, and most days I am.

You meant and mean so much to so many. I can finally look at pictures of you and not start crying. I can smile at these memories. Here are just a few, not necessarily favorites but little bits of sweetness and sorrow. 

I tried to make the layout tidy, but blogger doesn't make it easy. You would have spent the time to make it work and make it chronological, but this morning I just want this posted. Forgive me.

 Hanging out with Brent and Buff

You were so proud of your book. You and Whitney did such a good job.

Toasting me in Jamaica for our tenth anniversary. 

As a young man, maybe in your mom's house.

I'm not sure where, visiting someone you enjoyed.

 At Stephan and Vered's Wedding. You were so so so happy!

Where you were born to be, with your mom and kids.

A very serious young man.

  With Cynthia, probably at First Night. Elaine and I are there too, but off camera.

With my mom, in whom you had endless faith as you did/do for all of us.

 On one of our adventures, probably in Europe.At a Riding Through History/birthday event, Boston Harbor.

.With your mom in LAAnd, of course, performing at StorySpace at the Out of the Blue gallery. I love this photo.

It is a relief that I can look at these and smile, that today of all days I can remember you alive, moving, speaking, laughing, touching. It is also uncomfortable, because it means so much time has passed. 

This is how I want to remember us, alive and full of light.

What remains is the love. I know you loved me, and still do. I know I still love you, and finally that love is not always inextricably tied to the pain of losing you. It often still is, but not always. And I know that you knew/know how much I love you. 

It bugs me when people say, "I loved them so much." The love doesn't die. Love is stronger than death, though death can overwhelm it for a time. Grief is the cost of love and I will never regret loving you.

i carry your heart with me, i carry it in my heart. 

Love,

Laura

----------------------------------

Support me on Patreon.

laurapacker.com Performance, coaching, keynotes, and more.

thinkstory.com Organizational storytelling, communications consulting, and more.

(c)2022 Laura S. Packer

Anniversaries

Somewhere in the late hours of January 18, 2014, or the early ones of January 19, Kevin Michael Brooks was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in the emergency room of KU Med. He would die 69 days later, surrounded by some of the people he loved most in the world.

There are before and after moments in everyone's life, usually not realized in the moment, but this one was loud and clear. 

It's been long enough now that today is mostly a day like the ones before and after (though that carries pain of its own) with spikes of grief and gasping sorrow. The grief, truthfully, is my companion through the year but some days it's sharper than others, today being one of them.

If you were to have told me when I first met him, that loving Kevin would lead to this, I still would have said yes. I still do. Grief is the price of love and I pay willingly.

Tell the people you love that you love them.

----------------------------------

Support me on Patreon.

laurapacker.com Performance, coaching, keynotes, and more.

thinkstory.com Organizational storytelling, communications consulting, and more.

(c)2019 Laura S. Packer