Letter to Sheila

Dear Sheila,

I never imagined writing this letter to you. Just two short weeks ago right now, I was sitting next to you on your patio bench. We were talking about your unwelcome houseguest. We were talking about kids and vacations and Ragnar and inappropriate acts of dominatrices in New York. We talked of your disease - complex regional pain syndrome - which had rendered your leg unreliable and filled with pain. You told me of the challenges you were facing, of your sadness that was turning into resolve, of your acceptance and desire to educate others. When I left, I hugged you tightly and told you I loved you. I had no regrets when I left, other than the wish that the night could have gone on longer.

When your brother told me of your sudden passing on Monday night, I was shocked. I didn't understand how you could be dead. It didn't make sense that such a lovely, kind, funny, loving person could suddenly not be here anymore. The sparkle that was Sheila was snuffed out? How could that be?

I cried for your little girls who were now motherless. I cried for your husband Dave, who loved you and cherished you and laughed with you for too short of a time. A flash of him piggy-backing you down the stairs to the backyard nine days earlier (exactly two weeks! It's not possible!) went through my mind. The way you climbed on and the way he swiftly descended the stairs was casual - it seemed he had been doing that for you forever, even though I could reach back just a year in my mind to when I watched you running Ragnar with Dave. It didn't matter to him: running with you or carrying you, he loved you either way.

This week, I thought of all the little texts we sent this spring. I cannot listen to Christina Perri's Jar of Hearts without thinking of driving to East Canyon Reservoir during 2011 Ragnar. We were all singing along while we raced to get to the exchange before Van 1 runner's finished. I texted that memory to you. I still have the text on my phone. How is it possible that your text is here but you are not?

Your sisters - S1, S2, S4 and S5 - were so lucky to have you as their S3. It was so perfectly clear how much you loved your family and how much they loved you.

I stalked your Facebook page all week. I loved the memories that people posted there. It somehow was comforting knowing that other people knew and loved and missed you.

I tried to keep it together today at your funeral. I hugged Dave and told him I loved him. Seeing all all the pictures of you so suddenly was hard.  So much evidence of you and Dave doing what you loved - running, mountain biking, camping, tailgating - was heartbreaking. It just isn't fair.

The service was beautiful. So many kind words from Dave, your mom, stepfather, father-in-law, sister,, niece, nephew, coworkers and friends; everyone there shouldering one another to insist "I was Sheila's friend." "No, I was Sheila's friend." In fact, we were all your special friend. You made us all feel special.

I know you are in heaven, Sheila. I know that a spark like yours isn't snuffed out. It goes on, just somewhere else, for a time. I will look for you in pink shirts and songs on the radio and orange balloons and white tutus and legs 7 and 8 of Ragnar. I'm grateful that you let me think I was your special friend. I love you, Sheila. Thank you for sharing your light with the world.

Love, Becky

An open apology:

Dear (fill in the blank),

If you live to the south, east, west, or north of me (or if, even worse, you were at the church and happened to look over) and were outside at approximately 6:33 p.m. this evening, I am sorry.  You see, Ben begged me to jump on the trampoline with him, and since I was already sweaty from Jillian Michaels, I decided to join him.

Yes, my legs are really, really white.  Yes, I was wearing a tank top.  Yes, I was attempted a few "moves," including a front handspring and a brandy (dang if I didn't have to put my hands down.  I'm a chicken!)  It just felt so awesome to be jumping. And Ben did laugh his head off when I was lucky enough to bounce him  up so high he could touch the top of the net.

But really, I'm lame on the tramp now, as evinced by all the times I landed on my butt instead of my feet.  I am a "woman over 35" after all. 

However, in retrospect, I apologize for all the bouncing.  You know what I mean.  I'll try to limit my future trampoline activities to non-day light hours.  Although, as a small victory, I did not pee (after two kids, you take what you can get.)  Who knew?

Love, Me.

Letter to a friend.

Dear Friend,

It has been 1,813 days since we last were friends.  In that time:

• Two children have learned their sight words (t-h-e looks easy, but it's really hard!)  The one is reading Harry Potter now, and the other can do Hop on Pop (when he is motivated.  He has his days, like everyone.)
• Nine baby teeth have been lost.  That damn tooth fairy got credit for every. stinking. one. of them.
• One child has gone through more than half of elementary school (he even rode the bus for two years, one day getting stuck in a snow drift and not getting home until after 5p.m.  Terrifying for a 6 year old, really.  We are glad he can now walk or ride his bike or get rides from his mom when she's around.)
• (Oh yeah, they both learned to ride two wheelers, too.  You should have seen it!)
• Another child is almost done with kindergarten.  He thinks he's smart as the day is long. 
• Oh, yeah, he can talk now.  Boy can he talk!  But you missed that cute, baby-talk stage, and the day when he started to call the cat "Keetoe."  It was sweet, sweet.
• The other one has made friends and lost friends: to moving, to distance, to different choices.  He is such a good boy, and is learning so much about this world.
• One child remembers you, the other does not.  That's harsh.  For a lot of reasons.

It's impossible to list all the milestones in 1,813 days.  But anyway...

True, there were 5 days that we can subtract from our grand number.  In fact, there were 2 days in the same month when part of us saw each other.  Yeah, it was awkward, but we did it for someone else who isn't with us anymore.  At least he got to go to heaven knowing he had done what he could.  I wonder what he thinks of us now, still holding strong to our own suitcases full of Reasons.  They've gotten heavy.  I don't relish getting the contents out and showing them much these days.  They are a lot less shiny than they were 1,813 days ago, sort of sad and tired and broken.

And, I should probably thank you again for not running me over that one day in the parking lot.  Whew, that was awkward!

And also true, there are others who have missed days.  They don't get see all these milestones, either.  But if they could, they would.  They wouldn't have allowed all those days from that long ago day in April to this day to have elapsed in silence and wonder and eventual knowledge and resentment, despite what was said and what meaning was taken from what was said.  After all, children aren't the most reliable source.

And true, I have hoped for reconciliation.  Even prayed for it. But even so, steps toward reconciliation are hard, hard.  For every step, there are numerous other steps that are considered carefully, before a toe ever reaches the floor.  Because none of us can take back all those days, friend.  They are gone.  And we can't erase the endless rehashing of the events, or take back the dreams of conversations, the imagined reconciliations or (sometimes!!) imagined punches that surprised the dreamer with feelings of satisfaction.

We can't any of us change the days that have been missed.  And I have seen the days I was privileged to see and missed your days that of triumph and wonder.  But lets face it: 1,813 days when you are over 30 mean a lot less than when you are 1 and 4.

It feels like you are in the driver's seat.  Where do we go from here?

Regards,

Me.