Friday, March 13, 2009

A Letter to Joseph

It’s now been 73 days since you passed in Chicago. As a son, I fear that every passing day draws me further and further away from everything and everyone I know and love. Your passing is dificult to comprehend, occurring what seems to be a half a world away. I worry that I am losing the ability to care, to mourn, that the essence of what used to be is leaching away.

Your passing is probably my final initiation into adulthood. I have never really experienced it. My past indiscretions insulated me from the rawness and finality of that experience.

Though the logical part of me realizes you are gone, I hadn’t seen you in the hospital. I hadn’t seen your body before they took you away. Your death was something I was told about.

Now, sitting with photos of you, along with memories. I hear you speak in a way I never did when you were alive. Perhaps you thought I would never listen. The thoughts makes me mourn you in a way I never could when I was actually grappling with the shock of your passing.

I have mixed emotions that have to be sorted through. The great deal of sadness, as well as, feeling angry at you for not taking better care of yourself and a sense of betrayal for leaving my mother. I don’t hold resentment but feel this is an important part of the healing. I can’t hide anything from you now. I can only hide feelings from myself, but at the expense of peace of mind.

Since your passing, I try and imagine our home in Chicago on the morning of. Picturing my mother and inserting myself into that scene. That was my way of holding on, even as time and distance begin to eat away at the memory.

Now I feel like I don’t need to do this anymore. I am taking time to write you this letter so my relationship with you on the other side can be wonderfully fulfilling. Our relationship has not ended with your passing, it has simply changed forms. I still hear your voice. Joseph take care of yourself and look out for my mother.

I love you and I’ll see you soon.