guest post

Dear Bobo

Posted on September 25, 2012 Written by Tonya

Momma Kiss is my guest this week and if you don’t know of her or her blog, this woman has sass and spunk for days with an ooey gooey scrumptious center.

Her letter today is to a dear friend who recently lost her brother. Let it be a good reminder that even though we may not connect with our friends as often as we’d like, they are always in our hearts and their hurt is shared.

Dear Bobo,

I know it’s been over a year since we’ve seen each other.

Call it busy schedules with both of our little families growing or just plain life in general, I’m wishing we hadn’t let so much time go by.

And I know we’ve been in touch plenty, via texts and messages and sharing pictures and laughs.

So when I got a message from you on Saturday, knowing you’d send something even though I was with family, I opened it expecting a silly monkey face.

When instead, I read that you were in pain and in shock, not at all ready to speak – but that your brother had been killed in a car accident – I dropped to my knees.

Bobo, I’m so sorry for your loss.

So. Sorry.

I hate that you know this pain. This pain so raw you want to claw your skin off. You want to scream at the top of your lungs “WHY?”

Everyone grieves differently, and the process you will go through will not be easy. Services will be held {wear sunglasses}. Sedatives may be advised {take them}. Questions will be asked {you’re allowed to ignore them}.

Your Momma will need a hug and a shoulder – if you can, offer it.

Please, my friend, also allow yourself the time to process this. I know you’re one to take care of everyone else’s needs first. Please take care of you.

And after things calm down… after your friends stop bringing you food and wine… You will find yourself in your kitchen… maybe in The Bunker, folding laundry. And you will have a memory of your brother that may just shatter you.

I want you to know that it’s not the end of the world, though. I promise you.

From this day forward, every single thought you have of your brother – childhood fights, laughs, his time with your boys – every single one will honor his time on earth.

I love you, Bobo. I’m here for you.

Please follow Momma Kiss on Twitter and Pinterest.

Ripped Away, Ripped Apart

Posted on September 19, 2012 Written by Tonya

A wonderful supporter of Letters For Lucas, Robbie of Fractured Family Tales is my Letters For You guest star today.

They say death is hardest on those left behind and the what if’s can completely take over your brain. Here, Robbie writes a letter to her cousin who was taken far too soon. It is as you can imagine filled with sadness and wonder.

Dear JB,

I can’t celebrate my oldest son’s birthday without thinking of you because it is yours as well. Or was yours, though you left us a week before you turned eighteen.

You would have been twenty-nine this year and I can’t help but imagine how differently life would have been had you not been ripped away.

I imagine you would be married by now with a sweet wife, and a few children. I like to picture a little girl with your amazing black curls and shockingly beautiful blue eyes. You would have a career…not just a job. You were always a smart kid. You would have gone to college. You would move away from home, but not too far from your roots…close enough that you could go back and help your parents. You were always respectful and responsible.

Hannah, your oldest sister…well her life would have turned out differently too. She wouldn’t have felt the pressure to help parent your baby sister, to be the “husband” that your dad could no longer be. He was so lost by your loss. She did finish college but she never moved on.

She never got to leave. She never experienced freedom. I’d like to think she would have found a teaching job…maybe moved around a little bit…had some life experiences…traveled. Instead Hannah waits tables in a small town where she is trapped by her responsibility to Aunt Kay and Sadie.

By some miracle your sister Maddie made it out. But maybe too far out. She went to college and has a job. But from what I’m told she left and never looked back. By all appearances she was the least scarred by your death which means she may be in the most pain. Maybe she wouldn’t have cut all ties if you were still around.

I don’t even know your youngest sister and she didn’t really get to know you. She was only three when you died. I wonder if they even talk about you? If she gets to hear stories about you and look through pictures of you. Their pain was so deep, so raw and they shut down.

She would be 14 now. If you hadn’t died, she would have grown up with a family. She would have had two parents and a house full of older siblings to tease her and teach her and protect her. Instead she grew up in a hollow house of pain and sadness. She grew up in isolation and a cloak of fear. She doesn’t know her aunts and uncles who live a few miles away or her cousin who teaches at the local school. She doesn’t go to school. I’m told she barely speaks.

I don’t pretend to understand what went on in your parents’ marriage. I just know they never EVER recovered from your death. It broke them beyond repair. I’d like to think that if you hadn’t died they would still be together, living in their white house on top of the hill with it’s peeling paint and collection of old cars and trucks. Your dad was always fixing something up.

I’d like to think your dad would still be alive if you were. He would have taken care of his mind and his body. It would have spared my mom and her sisters the pain of burying another brother. Instead Uncle Lewis died alone in his car this spring.

When you were ripped away so many lives were ripped apart.

I wish things had happened differently but they didn’t. I will always cherish the memories of you, my sweet, smart, hard working young cousin who was taken way too soon.

Love,
Robbie

Follow Robbie on Twitter.

Where I Write To My Dearly Departed Self

Posted on September 11, 2012 Written by Tonya

I didn’t know a thing about John before last Christmas when I sent him a mug as part of Liz’s (A Belle, A Bean & A Chicago Dog) Mug Swap 2011. Ever since, I’ve been a big fan.

I’m happy to have John of The Adventures of Daddy Runs A Lot has my Letters For You guest this week.

John is father to two little ones and as his blog title suggests he loves to run, is a wannabe musician and a bonafide writer. Plus, he has to have one of the best smiles on the Internet (see photo below for proof). Please welcome John…

Well, I don’t know how to tell you this — but you bought the farm. You’re in the great unknown. I don’t know how old you were. I don’t know if you knew this truth until just now (but, let’s face it, you’ve always excelled at spoiling the spoilers, it seems only fitting that you’d do it to yourself).

Anyway, why am I writing you? Because, in your freshman year of high school, a guidance counselor made you write a note to yourself, to be delivered upon your high school graduation. And as you try to remember back to that letter to recollect what you wrote, the only pertinent fact that you recall, from a 34 year & 255 days old brain, is that you had a crush on Eileen McTague¹. That fact jogs your brain just enough to remember that you called Eileen, to ask her out, soon after writing this letter to your future self, and that she turned you down. But then, your senior year of high school, she sat next to you in calculus, and there was a test that you got an A on while nobody else in the class managed the same feat. Mr. Glahn did his regular thing where he pointed out “to those of you who thought it was impossible, look what John did.” Of course, Eileen wasn’t in class that day. But the next day, with Eileen back in class, she tapped you on the shoulder and gave you a great big smile and said “I heard you kicked that test’s butt yesterday. Good job.” Rather than take pride in a former crush complimenting you, though, you’d obsess about a new, large zit on the crease of your nose.

And then, at 34 years & 255 days, you’d recall that memory clearly and then wonder why you’re still having acne problems because, frankly, you were supposed to outgrow that shit.

So, I hope, as you’re reading this letter, that acne is among the least of your concerns². Anyway, the guidance counselor had promised that she’d deliver the letter when you graduated . . . but she never did. And you were truly & honestly disappointed to not be able to look back at the snapshot of your life from that moment of your freshman year, because there had to be more substance than “who you had a crush on.” So, now that you’ve graduated onto the great beyond, here is the snapshot of your life at 34 years & 255 days old:

You’re a father and a husband and a brother and a son, and you don’t take either of those terms lightly. At this moment, you have some difficulty in describing what you do for a living, but you have little difficulty describing who you are. And you’re proud of that.

About that “what you do for a living,” well, you’re not enjoying your job all that much. But you equate “husband and a father” with being a provider, and that means that you’re putting up with things. You feel that your priorities are in order.

Music is taking over more & more of your life. And, at this moment, this is a good thing. You have songs that are trying to speak their way through you. You have a musical that you want to complete. You’re setting yourself up so that you’d be able to sing/play for hours on end, from memory. Right now, you’re not sure how this would actually benefit you, but you’re having a blast learning new songs. I think the impetus is that you’ve been trying to talk your dad into retiring and going to work as the pianist on a cruise ship, but that you, yourself, would actually really like to do that⁴

You really, really want to spend more time writing. The simple truth is that you know yourself to be a good writer, with good ideas for what to write. You believe people want to read your words. But you’re finding other things to fill your time — and maybe it’s that you’re making excuses to not write. I don’t know. You know you wish you could write more – that you’re not always writing haunts you no small bit.

You’re convinced that your neighbors all hate you because of the state of your lawn.

You’re a tad bit concerned with the pleasure you get from watching zombie movies.

Much like with writing, you always feel that you should be active. When you’re not running, you want to be. When you are running, you want to be cycling. When you’re cycling, you want to be swimming. And when you’re swimming, you’re convinced that you look like a duck that had forgotten how to swim.

You’re currently thinking that the new zit, that started yesterday on your nose, might actually be the start of a beak, which would serve to make you look more like a duck that had forgotten how to swim when you’re swimming.

You really, really despise acne.

You grew a beard because you were bored. And then you shaved your head for the same reason. You believe this look works for you.

You hate that definition of the word “enormity” has changed with time, and cringe whenever you hear it used to describe something “really big.”

You can’t write “really big” without giggling and thinking “speaking of something really big…”

You’re thinking that, for the promised dick joke, that was a pretty lame entrant, but I know you chuckled.

You really wish you didn’t enjoy eating so much. But you do.

You want more tattoos. You really want more tattoos.

Ultimately, you’re not perfect, but you think you’re a pretty good guy. Above all, you know you’re loved — and that, all by itself, keeps you warm at night.

¹ Even now, I’ll admit that she was totally crush-worthy

² Well, I guess I mean that I hope that acne was among the least of your concerns before now – because, well, I suspect that your list of concerns is dramatically different (but what do I know, maybe the afterlife is like 7th grade lunch, and acne is, actually, among the greatest of your concerns) — but, well, please keep reading, because there’s some good stuff in here – I promise. Although the “good stuff” may be nothing more than self-depricating humor & dick jokes³.

³ It was the mere hint of a good dick joke that has you still reading, isn’t it? See, I know you. Because I am you. Isn’t metaphysical humor great?

⁴ You just committed Righteous Brothers’ “Unchained Melody” to memory and are nearly complete with the Beatles’ “In My Life,” but you don’t quite have the harpsichord solo straightened out.

Follow John on Twitter.

Mom, I Had To Let You Go

Posted on August 28, 2012 Written by Tonya

I am proud to have Lerner of Hey! What’s Your Dream (formerly Stay At Home Babe) as my guest today.

I warn you, her letter is hard to read, especially if you don’t know her story. It reeks of disappointment and heartache, anger and bitterness. But, if you read between the lines, you will also sense the slightest hint of forgiveness.

Please hold your judgements, these are Lerner’s words and she needed to write them. I’m honored that she chose my space to share them.

Mom,

I want you to know that I truly hated you for so long that I lost count of the years. I hated you for what you did to me, I hated you for what you allowed to be done to me. Years of my life were swallowed in hate. I hated you for the hate. I was a festering gangrene bag of hate.

You let him have me. I was so small and you just turned your back while he had me. I never fully understood the magnitude of my tininess until I saw my own child at five, how sweet and fresh and fragile he was. And I will never understand how you sat by and let that happen. I drove myself crazy trying to understand. I nearly died in the black hole of trying to understand that.

I find that old adage of, “I am who I am because of what I’ve been through, and I wouldn’t change it,” to be a saccharine-coated line of bullshit. It’s something we tell ourselves to justify the horrible things that happen to good people. I’m a good person. I am who I am not because of what happened to me but in spite of it. And the excruciating path it took me to get here… I blame you for that. It lies at your feet.

I found joy and comfort in your death. Then guilt and shame in that joy. You really left one hell of a legacy in your wake, you know? I wish I could look you in the eye and tell you that I’ve had to let that go. For myself, for my kids, for the simple act of living. I had to let you go.

I had to come to a place where I pitied you. You never knew the pride of motherhood that I do. You never went to sleep at night knowing that you did everything in your power to love and protect your baby. You never got to look the world in the face and stand between your child and danger and say, “Bring it, bitch. You’re not getting through me.” I have that, it’s the one thing I’ve done well from the beginning and it’s the only thing of true value in my life. I pity you for never having that.

I am only human, so I will never be completely one way or another. I will always have an injured little girl inside who loves her mother and wants what she can’t have. I will always have a hint of hatred and the occasional tears that fall. But, Mom, I had to let you go; because hanging onto you was a slow torturous death and life is too short to kill myself a little every day with your memory.

I don’t believe in an after-life, but if I’m wrong… if you’re still existing in some way… I hope it’s peaceful. I hope you’re resting peacefully because I want to hope better for you than you gave to me. I want to be better than you. And for that I thank you. Thank you for showing me who I don’t want to be. In a backwards, twisted way, you mothered me into a good person in that way. I am the woman you could never be.

Your daughter

Follow Lerner on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram.

Since You’ve Been Gone

Posted on August 22, 2012 Written by Tonya

One of BlogHer’s 2012 Voices of the Year and big believer in what goes around, comes around, Jenny of Karma (continued) is my Letters For You guest today. Jenny’s letter to her deceased mother-in-law is both gut wrenching and loving.

Too many times we let things go unsaid and with this letter, may we all be reminded how precious and short life is.

Five months since you’ve been gone.

Five months and six days, actually. And that feels like forever, and like no time at all. It’s longer than we’d ever gone without talking, shorter than the time that had passed between your last visit and the last time I saw you.

I still do not believe you are gone.

You remain, everywhere. On my cell phone under “favorites,” even though I rarely called. In my Amazon.com address book, for when we ordered you things you needed, or things we thought you’d like. Scribbled on the Anthropologie gift card you gave me for my birthday, just like you did every year. I can’t bring myself to buy anything with it, even though I was just there, shopping for things to wear to a conference. I used my own money instead. Last year, you flew in to help your son watch our kids while I was at the same conference. Instead of being grateful, I was mad at you for finally coming to visit when I wasn’t even here.

I almost used the gift card to buy a dress for your funeral. I didn’t have anything to wear. I stood in the dressing room, tear-ravaged mascara streaked everywhere, wearing this A-line black shift, very chic, very timeless, just right for a funeral, and thought God she’d be mad if I used the money for this. So I kept the gift card and went to H&M and spent $20 and felt you would have approved. We had very different styles, you and me, but we loved clothes the same way—hungrily, passionately, endlessly.

Sometimes I’m still mad at you. I’m mad that your visits were so infrequent, that we never bonded the way I thought a daughter-in-law and mother-in-law were supposed to. I’m mad you never seemed bothered by it, when I would stew over the gap between us for days. I’m mad that we didn’t ever understand each other. Mad that you let me be self-righteous and standoffish and so very immature, sometimes, when you knew better and you could have told me. But you didn’t.

Mad that you loved me so much more than I ever knew.

Mostly, though, I’m mad at me. Mad for not sitting down to write you this letter when you were still alive, when you might have read it and understood. But then I flew there, to be by your side, and saw you looking so alive. I heard you laughing and made you a cup of tea and thought, “Of course she knows, how could she not know?” Because I felt it, then, watching you laugh with the veils stripped away. A blurry watercolor painting in focus for the first time. I have always loved her this much. Of course she knows that. I talked to you about my babies, your grandkids. I was always waiting for you to ask about them, to remember that E was taking ballet and that Baby N hated avocados. I was too busy being hurt by your silences, by the unasked questions, to stop waiting and just start talking.

Instead of writing the letter, I curled up near you on the couch and read my book and watched the news and measured out your next dose of medication. I brushed aside your thank-yous. I pretended it had always been like this, and that it always would be.

She always talked about what an incredible mother you were. Your cousin Linda told me that, in the confusing, shattered days afterward. She thought you were exceptional. You never told me…never!…and now I have to believe those words I’d have given anything to hear from someone else’s lips while yours are forever silenced.

It’s pointless, of course, all this madness. And you knew that too. You always knew it. It is only now, as I look back and miss you and try to hold the pieces of my husband together while he endures the agony of your loss, that I can see all those silences for what they really were. You understood. You could see forwards and backwards with a clarity I will forever envy, forever seek to find.

You loved me anyway.

So this letter is for you. Too late, of course, though I would not trade that cup of tea for a hundred letters like this one. I can only pray that you felt what I did. That those last moments (though we didn’t know they were the last) were enough to seal the cracks and make us whole again. This is letter is to tell you that we are fine, that we love you and miss you and think about you every day. We are trying to make you proud. We are trying to live in a way that is exceptional, and carry on the legacy of what you believed we were capable of. I promise to stop waiting, to just start talking, in the moments I have left in this world with the people that matter most.

And this letter is to say I’m sorry. For all the silences, yours and mine, that slipped away before we could understand them, for all the words I didn’t say that I should have. I whisper them now and hope that wherever you are, you can hear me.

Thank you for giving me the greatest gift I’ve ever known.

I think you were an incredible mother, too.

Please follow Jenny on Twitter, Facebook and Pinterest.

Letter To My Blogging Buddies

Posted on August 14, 2012 Written by Tonya

When I think about Alison, I rarely recall that she lives a world away in Malaysia. Instead, I think of her good nature, amazing support (she is usually the very first comment I revive on any given blog post) and beautiful words that I never miss on her newly revamped, Writing, Wishing.

Although I hope to someday, I’ve never Alison in real life and yet I consider her a friend.

And I know I’m not alone.

That’s the beauty of technology, the Internet and the blogging community.

I am proud to have Alison here today sharing a heartfelt letter to all her friends in the computer. 🙂

“A friend who is far away is sometimes much nearer than one who is at hand. Is not the mountain far more awe-inspiring and more clearly visible to one passing through the valley than to those who inhabit the mountain?”

― Kahlil Gibran

My dearest blogging buddies,

I’m writing this letter to you today to thank you.

To thank you for being a friend. Not just any friend, not just an online friend, but a true friend.

People who don’t blog or participate in any form of social media will never understand the depth of friendships that develop over keystrokes and this screen which separates us (okay, oceans that separate us).

You were there for me through my second pregnancy, where I battled anxiety over whether I could handle two children.

You assured me that I can do this.

You were there for me through the times when I thought I’d lose it in the midst of the terrible twos with my toddler.

You told me that I was doing great, doing my best and that I’d get through it.

You were there for me when I was going through a blogging burnout.

You had my back, said you’ll wait for me to get my groove back, and you did.

You were there for me to celebrate the birth of my second son.

Your many tweets, messages, emails, comments buoyed me through the first hard month of adjusting to a new routine.

You were there for me when I questioned my writing, my blog presence.

You supported me through it all by continuing to read my words, to share yours with me.

My friends, you have no idea how much you mean to me.

Now, I hope you do.

Love,
Your faraway, but true friend, Alison

Tonya, thank you for asking me to be here today. Know that this letter, is for you too. xo

Follow Alison on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and Pinterest.

God & Angels

Posted on August 7, 2012 Written by Tonya

Tori writes Kindergarten Stole My Zen and is an amazing human being. We are connected through both grief and joy and I am grateful to have her here today with a bittersweet letter to the powers that be.

To God and the Angels,

I thought You’d explain the mess.

I thought You’d teach me before I’d have to ask.

I thought You’d speak directly to me so I didn’t have to struggle to hear You.

Where were You the day my body failed our baby?

I took my vitamins, wrote my affirmations daily, meditated, and prayed for a well baby.

I thought my children would be two years apart and in matching clothes, maybe even sharing bunk beds.

As the needles punctured my abdomen, the anguish my heart felt was far worse than the pain.

Watching the black and white screen with a baby who barely moved crumbled my spirit and made me wonder what I could’ve done to make this happen.

I blamed myself. My hormones. My distrust.

My faith was truly shaken to the core.

I wanted only to blink and see a thriving, moving, active baby with a great heart rate and perfect anatomy.

Not one with cysts in his brain, transposition of the great vessels, and a multitude of other problems.

“I’m sorry, but your baby has a slim to no chance of survival.”

I took a deep breath as the perinatologist gave me his card and told me I could go to another hospital to be induced for a terribly sick baby who would never survive.

I decided against a different hospital and went to my hospital. To the birth center I work at.

And I saw You there. I saw You in the way the sun shined through on my face during my long labor.

I saw You in my husband’s face.

I saw You in my friends’ faces.

I saw You when I delivered our stillborn son in all his peacefulness.

As we held him I felt Your love surround us.

I knew there was a bigger plan for us, but I struggled with what it was.

Then the grief impaled me.

I tried to trust You.

I tried to believe.

I cried. I took out my anger on my sweet husband and toddler.

I struggled with everything. The simplest things made me lose patience and strength.

I didn’t dare dream of anything. I was so afraid You’d steal it away.

Then, the day I fell to my knees when I found out I was pregnant again.

I told You I couldn’t do it.

I told You I wasn’t ready. It had only been a little over a year.

I couldn’t do it again. Not again.

You told me to just trust You.

I told you you were on crack!

I felt like I was trapped, but had nowhere to turn.

Except to You.

I did turn to You.

I did my best to believe.

There were many tears.

There was much anxiety.

And then, he arrived.

Safe and sound.

In my arms.

Screaming.

And part of my broken heart healed.

It trusted again.

It believed again.

I have to say, it hasn’t been the simplest of times, but it’s what You allowed.

You must have known something about me.

I must be stronger than I thought I was.

And I am reminded of the fact that I was given this life because You must have thought I was strong enough to live it.

So for that, I thank You.

Follow Tori on Twitter and Pinterest.

Miles Of Memories

Posted on July 31, 2012 Written by Tonya

Growing up overseas, I moved around a lot leaving friends behind and learning how to be exceptional at correspondence (this was WAY before e-mail, Facebook, Twitter or iPhones). I also discovered that while geography may sometimes divide us, some friendships run so deep that miles don’t matter. I have written about my lifelong friend, Sophie many times before.

Rach writes Life Ever Since and she is my guest today with a letter to her best friend who just moved far away. I think we can all identify with their bond. Here’s hoping they get to see each other again very very soon.

When Tonya first asked me to share a letter here on her series, I pondered just who I’d write my letter to. But quickly the thought hit me: my best friend T, who recently decided to move back to her hometown. I was selfishly a little sad that she moved so far away, but nonetheless, I’m so happy for her that she’s found a great job in a great place and is getting settled with her family.

Dear T,

We first met nearly 22 years ago when I was the shy, awkward new girl with extremely frizzy hair and bad fashion sense. Nonetheless, you befriended my middle school self and we soon discovered we had a lot in common: We were good at math, we shared the same sarcastic sense of humor and we both loved to prank call the guys in our class. Wait, what?

We spent many a weekend hanging out in high school, talking about the future, boys, clothes, parents. We could share anything. Soon, it was time to leave for college and we went our separate ways. We still kept in touch, but sporadically. There was a time when I was sure we’d outgrown our friendship.

Thankfully I was wrong and we ended up in the same city after graduation. We picked up where we left off and once again shared many adventures, this time as adults (if you could call us that) in the “big city.”

And like old times, we shared hopes, dreams and complained about boys.

Through the years, I’ve been both amazed and blessed by our friendship. You’ve been there through some tough times for me, and I hope I’ve been there for you too. Life has grown us up in so many ways: marriage, children, job loss, losing a parent, struggling through depression.

But through it all, we still have managed to keep our friendship intact. I’m grateful that when we do talk and see each other, we can be our inane 17 year old selves recalling fun times, yet we can also be two mothers trying to navigate a rough day.

Thank you for all the love and generosity over the years. For bringing me DVDs when I was sick with kidney stones, for plunging my toilet when it was overflowing, for the bachelorette party and the Miracle Swaddling Blanket. It’s amazing to see a friendship that has truly lasted a lifetime.

And I’m looking forward to many more years of friendship. Distance is no matter. I’m always a phone call or plane ride away. So I’m not going to say good-bye to you. I’m going to say “See ya.” Because I will, my friend. Soon.

Follow Rachana on Twitter and Pinterest.

Cantankerous Again

Posted on July 24, 2012 Written by Tonya

I promise to update you on my BS saga soon, but today I am happy to welcome Carri of Carri Ellen Brown: Snarky Suburban Mom with a Country Heart, (although she may be better known as co-creator of One Martini at a Time) here today.

I haven’t met Carri in real life yet, but I know without a doubt she will be able to drink me under the table and that I’ll have a blast trying to keep up.

Carri isn’t just a good time girl, she also has a big heart and I will always be grateful to her for reaching out to me last fall to share stories of how she believes her son senses his grandfather’s spirit. Thank you, Carri.

I think anyone who blogs for any length of time can completely identify with her letter.

I want to say I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for abandoning you.

I’m sorry for being so hot and cold.

And I’m sorry that I just don’t find myself needing you like I used to.

You’ve always been such a good friend to me but I’m fickle. I’m impatient. I’m indecisive. I want the world and even though you gave me all that you had, it wasn’t good enough for me.

I turned my back on you and you never saw it coming.

It’s not you.

It’s my job. My son. My husband. Pinterest. And all of the other things that demand my constant attention.

You were pushed aside like yesterday’s news and I’m sorry for that.

Remember when we couldn’t wait to see each other? Remember how I’d tell you all of my secrets without fear of you judging me?

I really did tell you everything. You gave me the strength to face what life gave me and share it with others. That’s something I was never able to do before.

You were always so good to me.

You helped me through so much and introduced me to some of the most amazingly brilliant women. Together, we worked through my bouts of depression, anxiety, PPD and mommy issues. You watched me drastically change – from a scared, angry and anxious new mom to a confident, stable and happy one.

I’m forever grateful for our time together.

I hope we see each other again. I hope we can rekindle what we once had because I do cherish those moments.

But right now, I just don’t have it in me.

For the first time in a long time, I’m content and I have nothing to say.

Hang tight, my dear blog. It’s only a matter of time before I’m cantankerous again.

xoxo,
Carri

Follow Carri on Twitter and Pinterest.

A Letter To The Dearly Departed

Posted on July 10, 2012 Written by Tonya

Greta writes Gfunkified and today is sharing a touching letter to her first husband, who was tragically killed by a drunk driver while she was seven weeks pregnant. Her post, Ivy describes that dark period of her life with nothing but heart and strengthen.

Greta is truly a remarkable and courageous woman, wife, and mother and I am pleased to have her here today.

Dear J,

Ivy will be five in a couple of short weeks, so that means it’s been six and a half years now. I wish you could have met her, seen her precious little face and how much she resembles your mom and sister.

She’s a little firecracker. She’s got my personality and our blue eyes. She tries to hide a sneaky smile when she knows she’s been caught. This girl will be the source of many a sleepless night, I’m sure of it.

Henry is, well… your little clone. The older he gets, the more he looks and acts like you. I wish you could have seen his school programs, or his endless supply of ever-more-intricate drawings (another trait straight from your genes). He has your enthusiasm and lack of rhythm.

We talk about you, a lot. They know who you are, who you were, and where they came from. As they get older, I know they’ll ask more and more questions. As hard as it is to answer them sometimes, you know I’ll always do my best.

I hope you can witness all of this from where you are. I hope, so much, that you haven’t been completely robbed of that.

I don’t hate the woman who killed you. I don’t have anger for her anymore. I don’t have energy to spend on that, and I know that’s not how you’d want me to spend my life with your children.

I will never, EVER forget her name, though. I’ll never be able to drive over that spot and not think about what happened.

I hope you know that I’m happy, and that we’re well taken care of. I hope you can see that your kids will never feel that they aren’t loved every single day of their lives, and that I’m loved. Because I know in my heart that you want that for me, and I will always have the inkling that you had something to do with how my life has played out since you left it.

Love,
G

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Dear Bobo

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