January 16, 2021
Dear Grandma,
I hope you can still read cursive writing. In the age of computers my penmanship isn't what it used tobe. I hope you don't mind if this ends up on a computer where millions of people could read it but probably won't. You see, we've already moved on from the pandemic that killed you and 3,964 other people last Wednesday to other maybe worse (worse!?) news. That news only killed five people, thank God, but the TV images were much more dramatic than someone gasping for air in a hospital bed.
I'm sitting in the recliner from your apartment. It's the first piece of furniture in our new house. My mom says you told her that you could picture the new house perfectly in your mind as I described it to you so I didn't send any pictures (TV worthy or not) that might have messed it up before you had to go.Passed? Died? Somehow I think you would have said “croaked”.
All the same, I would have liked to have recorded a tour of the house and showed it to you on the computer that you first loved then hated because “they kept changing everything.”
I feel like I've been unable to really even think about you or miss you like you deserve because what's one 93-year old woman among nearly 400,000 others now? And new mutant strains. A failed vaccine rollout. And oh yeah, the violent insurrection/coup right here in the good old U S of A. More threats of violence. Was it an inside job? Maybe you should be glad you're not here to see it. Or maybe it looks altogether different from where you are now. A pale blue dot in the great void. Or a flat disc on the back of a turtle like in the books you loved. I finally read the first one right before the libraries all closed. I could probably get them online but it's just not the same.
Just like an e-mail just isn't the same. We sent each other so many letters when you lived in Florida. I think I have most of them. All the way back in 1987 you told me:
“I hope you will write to me often because reading letters is something like reading a book. Most books that we read were written a long time ago and reading them is sort of like getting a letter from a friend we never had a chance to meet.Even if the things we are reading about happened a long time ago it is still interesting to read about them. Did you know the books I gave you were written before you were even born?”
You can get a letter from before you were born, but I don't know how it works for getting one after you've already died. But maybe this is a moment in time I can write down and hope it gets to you somehow. I love you. I miss you. I'm having trouble writing now and I'm sorry my handwriting is probably going to shit.
I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I'm sorry we live in a country that couldn't get its shit together to take care of you. I'm sorry we haven't seen you since before the pandemic started because we were trying to keep you safe. And then you got older and sicker and couldn't live on your own anymore and had to go into a continuous care facility cause we're not rich and famous and couldn't get you round the clock care at home. I was supposed to be the successful grandson who took care of everyone and I just never could figure out what the hell I wanted to do with so much often wasted talent. I'm sorry and I'm sorry that I'm sorry. And even now I don't know what to do. What should I do?
I know what you would do. You would write a letter. To me. Or to whomever. My mom says you even kept copies of letters you would send—letters to the editor, letters to a company, letters to a friend, letters to a Congressman. You did teach me to speak up with my opinion. And I cherish and treasure the letters that you sent me. And as we've been packing to move I've found so many other letters. From family. Friends. Old girlfriends.And you're right. Each one is like a window into the past. Moments long gone that are still interesting to read about. And I've been reading them all.
And I know what I'm going to do with all of this. I'm going to write a letter. And then another. And another. This is the first. I'll write you again when they're all finished. In between I'm going to write a letter to every single person that's ever taken the time to write a letter to me. By hand. In “writing” as you always called it, not print. Because otherwise, it's just not the same. Some may not remember my name. Some may write back. Many won't. But somehow they'll have a memory in a box in the attic that will one day transport them back in time. Writing is a special kind of magic that can make even those who have returned to dust live and breathe again.
We have so little time. Even when we live to be 93. God damn you were a hard one to kill, huh? Depression. World War. Cold War. Divorce when it was a dirty word. Florida. It was quite a life.
Hopefully you can still look down on that river you loved so much. And now you and your brother can row along it together like when you were young. And I hope you can picture a little house with a little waterfall out back that flows into a little stream to a little creek and now you're less than a mile to that same beautiful river. And know that sitting beside it is a little boy inside a middle aged man who misses his grandma too much for more any more words tonight.
Love,
Too Many Grandsons