Dear John,
It’s day 721 since I last saw you. Fall harvest is here again, and with Dad so busy, I’ve been carrying on with the basement project we started together. I’ve lost count of how many bags and boxes I’ve hauled out. None of it really matters anymore unless it holds a memory. I will say, though, you managed to collect more things than most people do by the age of 24. Every item feels like a small piece of you.
Around here, it’s a constant game of toss or preserve. Remember when we had those five mice? They got into your hockey bag—which was gross to begin with—and built a huge nest. I was terrified to even step into the basement after that. But you trapped all five in one day and sealed the spot we thought they were coming in through with an absurd amount of spray foam. It was ridiculous, and you knew it, but you humored me anyway. Any time I was afraid to open something or needed help getting rid of anything, you just showed up and handled it. You always did. Spiders, mice, whatever it was—you knew I was scared, and you came.
Now I’m down there again, finishing what we started. What began as a cleansing project has turned into a full purging. Fall feels like the right season for it, even though I hate it now. I’m extra sad this time of year. Everything about fall reminds me of those last days, that final month with you. So why not invite an avalanche of feelings while I’m at it?
Two years is almost here, and if I’m being honest, son, it isn’t any easier. In many ways, it’s harder. I measure time now as before you and after you. A friend asked me last night when I had last been over, and my mind went straight back to you. I realized it’s been more than two years, and that feels impossible—especially when it still feels like just days ago in my head.
I decided that whatever stays downstairs will go into Rubbermaid containers—mouse-proof, waterproof, and supposedly everlasting. Or at least lasting until someone else decides what to do with it. Someone who can let go. Because I can’t.
We’ve given some of your things to friends and family, but there’s still so much left. Yesterday, I bravely packed up some of your clothes I decided were extra. But every shirt carries a memory. I wish they all still smelled like you, but they don’t anymore. Nothing does—except one ACU blouse (which I still think is strange to call a blouse). It actually has body odor, and I locked it away for safekeeping.
That’s how I cleaned your room—by smelling armpits. People might think that’s odd, but you had such a specific way of dressing and undressing. A T-shirt first, then a long sleeve or flannel, then a hoodie. You put them on one by one, but when you took them off, they always came off together. Then you’d lay them on the floor and start a pile.
You knew I’d eventually have to deal with it, so instead of washing everything, I picked through the piles—smelling, sorting, checking for dirt. I complained the whole time. Now I wish I had the chance to do it again. I could never see the floor. The last time I cleaned it was just before you died. In a way, I was glad I had, because so many people were in your small room that day. But another part of me wishes I hadn’t washed a thing. Cleaning was just instinct.
I can’t part with your Army things. You still have two full closets and a Rubbermaid of civilian clothes, plus a huge Rubbermaid of fatigues. I still have four pairs of your Army boots. There’s an entire box of baseball caps—yes, I did get rid of some—but I can’t let go of any more yet. Your room is clean but untouched. I had the entire upstairs painted, except for your space. I couldn’t do it. I thought it might give the house a happier feel, but it didn’t. It’s still sad.
Yesterday, I found your box of baby clothes, the blankets Grandma made for you, the box of Christmas ornaments, and another filled with your school papers. You are everywhere in this house. Sometimes I don’t want to live here anymore, and other times I can’t imagine ever leaving. This sadness belongs to me. It’s part of who I am now—and part of you.
So I pared things down a little more, as much as I could manage. The woman at the thrift store gently asked how we were doing. And for once, I didn’t lie. I didn’t say “good.” I told her it sucked—which doesn’t even come close to covering it. It was brave of her to ask, and I was grateful. Yes, I cried. But I’d rather cry than pretend you’re not gone.
The truth is, John, this is going to hurt forever. Love lasts forever, and this just isn’t right. Anyone who thinks this is something we can move past or overcome doesn’t understand. You aren’t something we can box up and label with a Sharpie. You weren’t an event or a phase. You are our son. You will always be our child, and no amount of time will change that or take away the pain of losing you.
Sometimes I wonder if I’d dream about you if I slept in your bed. I haven’t been able to try. I did take out your woobie and brought it to movie night. I miss watching movies with you. Remember when you wanted me to watch The Walking Dead with you? I’m not sure which one of us was more scared. We huddled together on the couch, watching on the laptop, talking about survival and pointing out what was ridiculous. We laughed about slow zombies versus the freakishly fast ones in World War Z. We agreed slow would be better. We also agreed I wouldn’t last long—and that you’d have to protect me.
Don’t judge, people—it was just a TV show. I’d give anything to do it again. To sit beside him on the couch, laugh, share a blanket, and just be together. Sometimes you have to stop worrying about the rules and the little things and simply enjoy your people.
So I guess that’s it. Strangely, this didn’t feel like great therapy today. Just a lot of tears and a pounding headache.
I miss you.
