Thursday, February 28, 2013


Dear Papa,

I wrote you a letter last year, on the one year anniversary of the day you died. I wrote about what was going on in my life and why I hadn't had all that much to say to you lately, I wrote about how hopeful and excited I was to start college and how I wanted be a doctor just like we would always play. Things change though, we realize things about ourselves and other people and we evolve into new versions of old memories.

Today, I'm writing you a letter and I don't have a lot in common with that girl who wrote you a letter a year ago. I have a lot more in common with the girl who didn't eat anything and wrote everyone out of her life the day you died two years ago; funny, the more things change, the more they stay the same. It's funny because it's not, and it's okay because that's just how things go sometimes. I used to love February, it used to be my favorite, but now I am always excited for it to be over. I used to love a lot of things that I don't love anymore and I used to think a lot of things I don't think anymore; but that's just what happens when we grow up, right? I wrote to you last year as a hopeful little girl, and I write to you today as a woman, hopeful but a little bit heavy hearted. And why the hell did I want to be a doctor?

I remember you though, so vividly, especially today. You were never grown up and you were never bitter and you were never jaded, not to me at least. You yelled and you got angry and you hated when we jumped over the couch and into the playroom but you were the brightest light in the darkest place. We have a lot more in common now than we did when I was six, we would be even better friends now.

I like whiskey, a lot, just like you did. I like sad, sappy movies, a lot, just like you did. I like cashews, probably more than even you did. I like telling people I love them, a lot, just like you did. I like swearing, a whole fuck of a lot, just like you did. I am too emotional and too volatile and too much of everything, but unlike you, I can keep it all locked up inside. You probably lived so long because you were free of all vaulted emotion; if this is the case, I need to start yelling more.

Is it okay to say that I hate Nanny's new house because I can't walk into the playroom and sit where you sat and see your ghost in every mirror and in every rocking chair? It still smells like you somehow, though. Is it okay to say that there are very few people on this earth that I like half as much as I like you? Is it okay to say I'm a little bit of a mess? I am and I'm saying it and I'm justifying saying it because I have great grades, I'm allowed to be a mess as long as school is great; patented Chloe life philosophy.

I miss your romanticism and your belief in people and how absurdly affectionate you could be. I miss hearing you sing my name, no one else sings the Clobird the Snowbird song, and I miss getting screamed at because I wouldn't talk to Uncle Rich on the phone. I would gladly talk to him now, whenever you wanted me to, he is even more brilliant and even more screwed up than I. I miss the way you looked at Mama and the way you talked about her and I miss you being cute to Nanny and her squawking back at you. You are all of my favorite embodiments of true love, you are all of the reasons I continue to believe magic things exist.

So it has been two years and you're still gone and we're all still here.
You're gone and we all still miss you in strange, painful ways.
You're gone and I'm just trying to build a life that makes sense, I know I can. I know you'll help.
You're gone and we're here, so keep taking care of us.

I love you to pieces Papa,



  1. I wish I could tell you how beautiful and amazing your writing is. I wish I could remind you how much Papa adored you, but you know all ready because it's the same way I adore you. I wish I could tell you that he is up in heaven bragging about you all the time, and that may have something to with your blushing. But, I can't write because I'm crying too hard. So, if it's all the same to everyone, I'm just gonna go to bed and wake up when it is March.

  2. I love reading your blog, Birdturd. You are gloriously talented and I love that you share it with us from time to time. I hope that despite the requirements of school and your budding alcoholism (*sob* I am so proud, you don't even know) that you are writing more than this. Write and write and write. You don't have to show it to anyone, just write it. You're a thousand times better than you think. Anytime you need an object lesson? You call and I will remind you what REALLY screwed up is, baby. I love you.