I've been meaning to write to you for a while now, but between cheerleading, Madrigals, work, school, college applications, and life, I just haven't made time. I've been meaning to ask you about Heaven, about God, about Chris and Bawky and Bean and your family, I've been wondering if the potato salad in Heaven really is better. I've been meaning to follow your rules: to not take anyone's shit, to keep my head held high, to never let anybody tell me I can't do anything...but let's be honest, when do I ever not follow those rules? I've been meaning to be stronger for Poozer, to be the one person who doesn't put everything on her shoulders, but I'm usually putting the most on her shoulders. I've been meaning to hug your little woman harder, to still make her feel like the most special woman in the world even though you're not here to tell her she is anymore.
I've been meaning to do a lot of things, but I guess sometimes I get so caught up in life that I forget to, that's really not fair though, huh? I could make a million excuses, but I know you and I know you'd call bullshit on me. Most days, I just try not to think about it, I try not to remember last February and the day God took you home, that overwhelming void in the room, that feeling that life as we knew it had forever changed. I remember the last time I ever kissed you, it was my birthday and you had the flu, you were trying to get me to go get money for myself out of the play room and I kept blowing you off. I remember you just smelled different, not like you, I remember asking that night if death had a smell. I wish I could go back to this day last year and just sit in your chair with you for a while, listen to you muse about things or tell me about teaching Jackie O how to ride a horse or maybe just bitch and moan; I'd just like to tell you how much I love you one more time, I'd just like to hear you sing to me one more time.
You taught me to be a stronger woman than that though, you taught me about passion, about capability, about laughter, about loving people hard, and how to swing a golf club. You taught me more about life than anyone else I know, yet for the majority of mine, you were sitting in a recliner. So I know you wouldn't have wanted me to cry every day, to sink into a whole with no light to lift me out, to even miss you; you would've wanted all of us to go on like you were still here to lift us out of the darkness and kick our asses into gear, because that's just what you did.
So I hope you're having a hell of a time up there: drinking an uncomfortable amount of Wild Turkey and flirting with Marilyn Monroe, tell her I can't wait to meet her. I hope you're catching up on all the time you lost with Chris and Bawky and your dad and Josephine. I hope you're hugging and squeezing and kissing your little Blonde Bear every single minute of every single day, because she really needs it. I hope we're all making you proud down here and if we're not, I hope you're having some talks with God about our behavior. I hope you're still feisty as hell and swearing and screaming at everyone, and then loving them into submission; there needed to be more angels like that anyway. I hope you're not disappointed that I chose medicine over professional golf, but I was always much better at bandaging you than I was at hitting balls and that ridiculous contraption you bought me. I hope you're looking down on your baby girl and just shaking your head and smiling: she's just too damn impressive. I hope one day I fall in love with someone who loves me just like you loved Nanny; too much and too hard and diamonds should be involved too, just mull that over for me, will ya?
Thanks for all the cashews and all the coke and for being the best friend I ever had; thanks for everything, just not leaving before you turned 106 ;)
Love Ya to Pieces,