Number 203

 Year Seven

Dear Rebecca,

You would be 62 this year. When I type that, it seems so young. Then I subtract seven years and arrive at 55. Christ, I'm two years older than that now. All of it feels impossible.

It's been a big year. Grace graduated college last Spring, and Emma got married in September. They are both so spectacularly beautiful it makes my heart hurt. Whenever I'm with them, I sense your shadow upon them. The hardest part remains celebrating these precious moments without you. 

I continue to put one foot in front of the other, even though moving on still feels like betrayal. I know it's not. And I know that I really have no other choice, but doing so hurts nonetheless. Sometimes my steps are sure, and other times they are tentative. Sometimes I detour down a dead end, and other times I feel like I might soar. It's funny. In both situations, thinking of you can either set me on the right path, or bring back to earth. In much the same way, I sometimes feel like I give your memory too much reverence, and other times I feel as if I don't give it enough. If that's confusing to you, I'm of no help. It's confusing to me too.

Just lately, I've been haunted by feelings of guilt. It seems as though all I can think of is all the ways I failed you when you were here. Thinking I did my best feels so inadequate and trite. Then I think of the financial and healthcare security you left for me, and I feel like an exploitive beggar. How did I get so lucky? What did I do to earn this?

I wish you could let me know it's all okay.

I love you.