Five Years On

Dearest Rachel –

There’s a certain point at which it feels like commemorating the day of the year in which you suddenly had to go home is like picking at a longstanding, grievous wound. It’s not going to heal if I keep at it like this – although one would think that, if it’s only brought up once a year, there would be time for wound to diminish in between observances. Then again, it may well be that writing to you like this every day obstructs the healing process, too; this is just added weight to this particular moment.

And yet, it also seems like trying to ignore the moment completely, in hopes that doing so would expedite recovery, borders on disrespect of you and your memory. I should be coming up with something profound, something poetic, to remind myself – and those reading this over your shoulder – of you and how much you meant to me over the years we were together, and how difficult it is to get along without you now that you’re gone, right down to the impossible task I’ve set myself to try and get the attention of someone who might – just might – fill your shoes.

But just as this series of letters was originally meant to commemorate you and somehow turned into a chronicle of my own life since you had to leave, so too has this fifth anniversary arrived while I’m in the middle of doing this, that, and the other thing. It’s hard to come up with soaring words or treasured memories on the fly when I’m dealing with a nasty cold snap and preparing to fly out in the wee hours of Sunday morning. I won’t go so far as to say I’m too preoccupied to do so – you can see that I’m still taking the time to write you, and just the fact that I’m talking about it goes to show that I haven’t forgotten what this day represents – but I have to admit that I’m caught up in just trying to live life in your absence, and that’s most of what I have to talk to you about.

The thing is, you and your life, being a part of the past (and specifically, my past) freezes you in amber, trapped and unmoving. What has happened has happened, and cannot be changed; it can only be brought to memory, and not always on command. Meanwhile, Daniel and I are still living in the ever-changing present, and dealing not just with your loss and continued absence – which gets further away with each passing day – but the many things that come up and need to be addressed, along with a fair number of others that we just would like to do and enjoy. It’s not that these things take precedence over you so much as they are just more immediate than you these days – all the more so as time progresses, and we’re now five years on from that awful day.

If this seems like an apology for not paying enough attention to you, well, that’s not far from the truth. As much as I think – and have been told – that I need to get on with my life, the fact remains that you were such a part of it that I shouldn’t move on so quickly. Especially in moments like this, the anniversary of your passing; I should be reflecting on you, all the time we spent together, and all you brought me through.

Instead – and this is part and parcel of that ‘moving on’ process – I’ve gotten involved in so many other things to occupy myself with during these years. There are some – most, in fact – steps taken which an outside observer would consider to be admirable; between exercise, weight loss, further volunteering, even the travels I’ve undertaken, one might consider it growth, and surprisingly rapid growth at that. I didn’t let myself wallow in grief or stagnate in a certain state. I wonder, if you were to come back for a brief visit (which I would welcome you to do if you could), whether you would even recognize me at this point.

That thought actually kind of scares me, though. Sure, I needed to move on and continue to live life in your absence. And if I could somehow improve myself as part of the process, so much the better. But does this mean you were holding me back – or, let’s be charitable, we were both holding each other back, enabling each other to stay at a certain level without challenge? I have to admit, honey, I don’t know if I like the implications of where I am today compared to five years ago. You might like the new me (apart, probably, from the beard – you made it clear that you didn’t like “kissing sandpaper”), but would you be dismayed to think that you had to leave for me to change myself into what I’ve become? Or would you be annoyed that I’m trying to change more for someone I don’t know (and don’t know if she even exists) than for you?

Then again, it didn’t seem like we wanted each other to change, any more than we wanted to change ourselves; so maybe I’m worrying about nothing.

Still, it feels like I’m talking more about myself than about you after all this time. But the fact of the matter is that things keep happening to me and Daniel and those around us, and nothing new happens to you (or if it does, it’s not where I’m aware of it, and you can’t tell me about it, so they can’t be written about, more’s the pity). So all the new stuff gets written down, and there’s not much more to say about what’s past, as the details get dimmer and dimmer every day.

The wound is still there from where you were amputated, honey. Sometimes, when I’m out in public, I think that everyone can see the stump, but I think I’m the only one who knows it’s there; I’m certainly the only one who knows when it hurts (and I’m doing my level best to numb that, I suppose), although there are those who recall and tread lightly around me on a day like today. But really, all I need at this point is for you to keep your eye on me, and for you to wish me luck, as I’m going to be needing it that much more in the time to come.