Dear Ken,
I’ve thought about this day for a long time: what would feel like to have lost you for as long as I had you—just 10 years. How much would it hurt? And what would it mean? Anything? Everything?
I vividly remember as the five-year anniversary of your death approached in 2016, I thought ahead to this date. (I’ve always been a pre-worrier, as you are well aware.) We’re obsessed with those round numbers and multiples of 10, aren’t we? But the 10 in this case very important. We had 10 wonderful years together. It hardly seems possible that you died 10 years ago. That means we fell in love 20 years ago! (You were on my mind on that anniversary, too). It feels like a lifetime ago–because I suppose it is. I’m not the same person I was when I first met you on March 23, 2001, nor am I the same person who said goodbye to you on June 1, 2011.
Some surprising news I have to tell you is I moved to the burbs! I know. I never thought I’d want to leave the city. I sold my loft and moved into a little house in what I would call a “near suburb.” Only 25 minutes from our old neighborhood. The global pandemic (not making that up) made me really crave more space. It’s a Mid-Century Modern you would love with plenty of yard for gardening and mowing–and for Kallie to enjoy. When I was settling into my new home earlier this year, arranging and unpacking, I came across a book about “It’s a Wonderful Life,” one of your favorite movies. I got it for you for your second birthday we celebrated together in 2002.
It struck me odd that I signed it “Always” rather than “Love”. But I suppose that’s implied in the “Always” part, isn’t it? Because my love for you hasn’t waned or wavered in the last 10 years. It’s changed since you aren’t here to receive it in person, and, in fact, I’m certain it’s only grown. It certainly makes “Always” make a lot of sense now–as if it were some kind of unknowing foreshadowing.
In other big news, I had just ended a relationship right before I moved into the house—my first and only serious relationship since ours—with a really incredible guy. It didn’t work for us for a number of reasons, but we parted on good terms, and I wish him only the greatest life has to offer. He deserves it. As I learned from you repeatedly during our time together, it is all about the journey, not the destination. It felt good to love someone and be loved in that special way. And, frankly, I was happy to know I am still capable of it. You would have liked him. (He loves Ani Di Franco as much as you did.)
I think you would be happy with how far I’ve come in the 10 years since you died. You would have loved the loft I called home for seven years, and you’d love the new house and yard. We’d be sipping martinis on the patio, for sure, if you were here. You’d love how I’ve returned to camping—and you would especially love that since reconnecting with our old friend Matt, that we camped together at Starved Rock in 2019. Likewise, you’d love that I became close friends with my amazing neighbors (something I picked up from you, I would venture to guess) and I’ve camped many times in the last 10 years with new and old friends. I think of you every time I camp, particularly when I use the coffee percolator. And, there are more trips yet to come.
You’re always top of mind when I’m working in my yard. I spent a day outside one Saturday, getting ready for friends to come over that evening for a barbecue. It was one of those days when every moment leads to an even better one. I felt the satisfaction I learned from you in cutting the grass and planting a little herb garden like the one we had in the apartment on Cuyler. My yard is well-landscaped, but I don’t know what any of the plants are (I know you would know), so every day is like a little surprise. I think of you when I’m caring for any kind of greenery. I have so many fond thoughts of our little garden in that apartment. And how the act of caring for something–a plant, a dog, a person–makes me think of you and our connection.
You’d love that writing is still my passion as I continue to share my feelings here. But more than that, after leaving Accenture last year, I found a wonderful job where writing is in my job description. You’d love that I’m starting to return to a regular cadence with my blogs. You know the peace and wholeness I experience when I write them. You know it saved me during your illness and after. It’s a friend who has never abandoned me–except briefly right after you died when even my writer’s voice was lost in grief. But, it returned quickly to stand me up and push me forward. And you’d especially love that I’m looking for an agent to publish the memoir I wrote about our journey together.
I wondered how I’d feel having lost you for as long as I had you. It’s a complicated question. I don’t get sad in the same ways I used to, but there are both perfect moments and difficult ones where I wish you were by my side. Over time, I’ve realized in the stillness of those moments…you are. I can still hear your laughter, see your dazzling smile. I can still hear you whisper words of encouragement in your smooth-as-silk voice when I’m in doubt or feel lost. And I’ve had a lot of those moments over the past year—we all have. You’re involved in daily memories or conversations I have in my head–and in many other people’s heads, too, I’m certain. And though it won’t ever be the same to not have you with me physically, you’ve been with me every step of the way since June 1, 2011. It’s just taken time and healing for me to see you.
My head and heart are squarely planted in the present, looking toward the future. Relishing it. Excited by it. But our past together continues to give me strength in every aspect of whatever I’m trying to accomplish. I’ve done my best–will continue to do my best–to honor you and what we shared. Because it was important. And special. It still is. And it forever changed me. For the better.
But, to be honest, in a vacuum, it still hurts. The sting is real. The blade hasn’t dulled. There are still songs I skip when they play on my phone, and there are some TV shows and movies I’ll never watch–because you loved them and I tie them so intimately with you. I won’t ever visit anyone who lives in a pineapple under the sea, Woody and Buzz are on their own and I gladly let someone else find Dory. But in the context of my life and the richness, texture and experiences with the people I have in it, I have no cause to complain about the life I’ve had that began with you in the center of it.
I smile at strangers and am happy to give directions or make a new friend. I’m far more open than the young man you fell in love with. You were standing beside me many times in the two months I emptied my condo, had it painted, bought new appliances and staged it. It sold in 7 days. I pushed hard through that one to get to where I wanted to be next. As I learned from you, nothing is impossible with enough thought, planning, work, and humor.
I’ve pondered about love in this blog before–many times. It’s such a powerful force. Unstoppable. It can’t just evaporate. It’s immutable. But maybe it transforms. Like light from the sun pushes flowers from the soil and manifests in their bright colored petals. Like so much of you manifests in the man I’ve become in the last 10 years.
Because the truth is I haven’t really lost you at all.
And I never will.
Always,
Ron
