Dear Heather,
I’ve been trying to find the words. Nothing seems to fit quite… right. For the life, your life, that happened; for the lives intersecting with yours, that happened; for the end of life, your life, that happened. For my oceans-deep sadness for you, and for your husband, for your son, for your twin girls, for your parents, for your family, for your friends… for you.
I sat with you in the hospice center that morning, and we talked about things the way we always have, and the way we have for the past few years. You said the things you always say, and I said the things I always say. Your husband was there, and then left us, and then came back. Your family arrived, parents, sisters – had I seen them since your wedding? We were all there, together. We were all there together. And then: it became the time for just family, the time for your children. It was time for me to go. I didn’t want to, and I didn’t want it to be that time, and it was that time.
You were hurting, so, so, much. Knowing that – with acute awareness of oh so many things – I still couldn’t help myself giving you, with warning, the most gentle kiss on your forehead. I love you muchly, I told you, and you teared up and looked at me and said: I love you too. I smiled into your eyes, and my tears welled up and held; sadness, and love, and friendship. You looked straight back into my smile. I’ll see you, you said. I felt that truth to my core; and, my eyes to yours, I nodded.
. . .
Outside in the garden, some indeterminate time later, I ran into your dad. I was walking to my car. He was heading back inside, to you. We talked for a while, me and your dad, for a while. We talked about you. And we talked.
I told her, your dad said, I don’t know how to guide her. I don’t know what’s after this.
He talked about your grandparents, about people in your family who had traveled the path you were about to take, before you. …whatever is next, I tried to tell him, his daughter – you – Heather – have so many people supporting you and loving you right now, in this world; and such love from those who have gone before you; that whatever it is that happens next and however that works, you have great support, and the strength of all that love – from both sides – to carry you through, to carry with you, going with you …whatever happens next.
. . .
On New Year’s Eve this year, just four months ago, you and I cast on for our own little knit-a-long, a shawl. You picked the pattern, a favorite designer. We cast on at midnight. We would wear our shawls to the MD Sheep and Wool festival in May. Then in January we got distracted by an outstanding photo of a fantastic hat. It was so good it caught the attention of a third friend – we would teach her to knit. We had ourselves another mini knit-a-long. You ended up picking out the yarn for me, because on the appointed day of our much-anticipated group shopping adventure, none of us thought to check the store hours. I was going to arrive after they closed. I phoned the shop to pay before you even got to the counter. At our next gathering, you handed it over. You chose a butter soft wool cashmere blend in a gorgeous blue – the kind of scrumptious yarn a knitter friend picks for a knitter friend. The hat pattern calls for beads and a second yarn held together; strangely, I already had both that matched the yarn you chose exactly – what are the chances. You set up swift and winder, in your kitchen, and wound my cobweb yarn – and it didn’t tangle once. We cast on.
Somewhere in these few months, fast knitter you finished off socks, gifts, other hats, and a sampler style cowl you made for you with yarn that you absolutely loved – and kept defending that you were knitting on because the yarn made you incredibly, nonsensically happy.
I have, on the passenger seat of my car, one blue hat knit with tiny trees, cables, and beads.
I have, on the chair in my kitchen, a project bag with half a shawl, in lavender laceweight.
I went to the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival this year. It was the week of your 41st birthday. I bought yarn because when I spotted it, it made me incredibly, nonsensically happy.
. . .
Around the turn of the New Year, I did a sort of self-focused life assessment of the past year. One of the first questions was to consider, and write down in a list, what had gone really well. Not just a one-time event that brought joy and fun, but what had given rebounding happiness. Something I had made happen on purpose because it was important to me, that had echoing layers – something that created a continuum of good and gratitude.
My #1 was dancing in performances with my talented musician friends.
#2 was my new puppy.
#3 was finding a beautiful instrument and playing music with friends.
#4 was spending more time with Heather.
. . .
I am so sorry. I am so sad, for you.
and
I miss you.