To Do You Justice

Dearest Rachel –

Over the last few weeks, I’ve been going over the letters from the early days of this site (and while I’d started this letter with an explanation of how I’m doing that, that might actually merit a separate letter for another time, so I’m going to set that on the back burner until I’ve gone a little deeper into the archives). One of the things I’ve noticed is that those earlier letters were much shorter than they are now – often allowing me to write you multiple letters in a given day more than today – and much more heartfelt.

This should be understandable; those first few months saw me dealing with the shock of your loss, and while I could write lengthy essays about that and what your presence meant to me – especially now that it was gone – the sensations often came in sharp bursts, ripping into me at various moments like an animal attack. There wasn’t always time to put my thoughts into an extended examination before the moment would pass and I would be left to ponder and tend to my psychic wounds, torn open afresh. Not only that, but there would be multiple things pulling me in different directions as well, and they would need to be looked at separately, at least in my mind.

That animal analogy extends a little further, too, because of Chompers’ decline, and the demands put upon me to tend to him. I had forgotten about the nights spent waiting for him to get comfortable enough to go to sleep until I re-read those letters written to you in those interminable hours. Back then, I wasn’t really trying to get into a habit the way you used to with your computer games; it was as much a way to pass the time as anything else. Although I had been encouraged to set this up in the first place by Pastor Scott and several others as a means of processing my grief – as well as expressing my unique thought processes to the world at large – I hadn’t planned on making a streak out of it; it was just something to do when I could, especially because things kept happening or were being dug up, wrenching me anew and demanding to be told about. The letters written in those nights, when I was in clearly desperate need of sleep, have an edge about them that I can’t replicate so much anymore.

By contrast, these days, I’m usually writing to you first thing in the morning, when I’m… well, not so much at my best, as I’m still coping with decisions about what to do during the day – whether to work out or not, for instance, and how I feel about either choice – but certainly not on my last thread. Time has moved on, and the jagged edges of grief and exhaustion have been sanded down to the point where one can run their hand along the corners of my mind and not cut themselves.

Moreover, now that I’ve gotten into the habit of sending you a letter every day – especially since you would have related to the ‘need’ to do so – I’ve added the further challenge of trying to write a certain number of words on the topic at hand. I seem to have settled on a thousand, as it’s a nice round number, and roughly comparable to the articles that tend to wind up in my news feed. Oh, I’m not trying to write exactly that many words, as such, but at least that many, if at all possible. And if I can’t, well, I dare say I’ve gotten things to the point where they average out well over that self-imposed quota over time.

But the effect of such a methodical approach, combined with the fact that the rawness of your absence has mellowed (and Chompers’ arc is, mercifully for the both of us, long since over), is that there are moments when the soul of these letters seems to have faded since then. It’s been said that one must suffer for the sake of art, and as the suffering has subsided, whatever art may have been a part of these missives (and I’m not about to try to claim they ever rose to the level of ‘high art’ or anything) feels somehow… less so these days in comparison.

I’m grateful to have apparently recovered from those days, too, but there’s a mild irritation in noting that mellowing dilutes the taste of life. There are a few moments where the emptiness of the house (offset by Logan’s presence, especially in Daniel’s orbit) still stings, but it’s not as potent as it used to be. And I guess this is how things are supposed to work out – which should encourage those reading over your shoulder: “I managed to work through it all, and you can too!” – but something’s not right about it, and I can’t put my finger on it.

Part of me worries that I’m not remembering you as much as I meant to. I was concerned about that almost from the start, as I went through the videos of you on our travels, examined the trash and treasure you left behind (never quite knowing which was which), and as I continue to make my way through your study notes. I can still recall you hurriedly scribbling responses the night before your group would meet; these answers were as rushed and short on deep thought as a collegiate term paper written the night before the due date. Weird how they still seemed to distill so much of yourself into them, regardless.

Most of these letters – and again, I’ve bemoaned this fact a number of times before – are about my day, as I keep moving on, rather than actually talking about you. I’m leaving your orbit – or you’re leaving mine – like a space probe drifting into the Oort Cloud; I can turn around and look back, but that pinprick of time is getting fainter and fainter the farther away it gets. Pretty soon, I won’t be able to see it at all, and I haven’t recorded enough of it as it is.

I suppose I should console myself with what I already have written, as it’s more than most people ever think to do. But it doesn’t seem to be enough, and it’s not going to get any easier to do you justice. Then again, are you even concerned about have been done justice at this point? You’re beyond that, where you are; it only matters to me.

But it does matter to me, honey.