Harsh Reality

Dear Rachel,

No one will read this blog. Well, maybe some family and a few friends, but other than that, who would really care? I’m a middle-aged magazine editor—nothing too exciting there, and you…well, you’re dead.

That’s kind of harsh, isn’t it? Sort of cold, maybe? But I find that I need to be blunt with myself about this. I need, sometimes several times a day, to remind myself that no matter how much I cry, or wish, or hope, or offer to deal with God—no matter what I do or think, you’re not coming back to me. There will be no more late-night tech-support phone calls (“Daaaad, why won’t my printer print?!" "Dad, what’s wrong with my modem—it won’t, uh, ‘mode’ any more!”); you won’t be coming through the door in a rush, dragging a car-seat, a diaper bag, and a sleeping baby; you won’t show up (as you did once) unannounced at the airport while I sit through a layover in a strange city.

None of that will happen, and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it. I need to make sure I know that. I mean, I have to really know that. I have to learn to accept your absence, as I once gloried in your presence. Otherwise my heart breaks whenever the phone rings or the doorbell buzzes, or whenever I see a young, dark-haired woman walking down the street. And a heart can only break so many times before it’s completely shattered.

So, why a blog? Mainly I’m hoping that these letters will prove therapeutic; perhaps addressing some of these issues will provide that "closure" I keep hearing about. Also, maybe this blog will serve as a communicative (I remember how much you loved that word, “communicative”) device to keep our family and friends apprised of how we’re doing. And if anyone does read this, maybe these entries will chart a course toward some kind of recovery (I won’t say “healing”; I’m not sure we’ll ever really heal) that might be helpful to others in a similar situation.

We did so much together, you and I. We hiked and camped; we worked on cars (well, at 4 years old, you mainly fetched tools and smeared oil all over the place); we spent so many evenings in deserted newsrooms finishing up articles and setting type; we played countless games of catch with baseballs and footballs and Frisbees and who knows what else; and sometimes we did nothing, just sat on the couch watching TV or reading—but we did it together.

I suppose that this is the last thing we’ll do together, so I hope we do it well.

Love,

Dad