Dear John

I never thought I’d write a Dear John letter but today I do. A while back I mentioned a family tragedy I would eventually write about. Since the tragedy I cannot say I have kept a strict mental record, some intentional and some not simply because I am not the sort of person who keeps such a diary. It hasn’t been a reluctance to blurt my brain blathering, it’s out of been respect and timing. I am on a potential limb of direct shunnings and dirty looks for what I post here in this entry, at the end of my day I am little more than a daily muse, an artist and someone who writes things of observation. I will not apologize for any of those things. If I did it would completely contradict my person. I have republican parents, thick skinned be thy name.

So. A bit over a month ago my step father in law took his life. And not in a particularly shy fashion. Something that had I read in the news of a stranger I’d have said “damn!” but I wasn’t quite afforded that word and rather chose “oh my god!” because, it was personal. I have thought about it, pretty much every day, just as the rest of the family, going through the cycles of why, and every other thing that does no good. Some think they could have stopped it. I think – sure, that day. If it’s in ones’ mind to do such, they will. I had an Oncle who hung himself and his daughters found him, and they forever chewed into their stomachs with guilt. Many people say it’s wrong to call a suicide selfish, that the person was sick. Clearly. At the same time I disagree to an extent. (btw the way one cousin rides a pole at night and the other is a meth addict, way to go Oncle Charlie!)

We were recently provided with the last letter, five pages worth. The script admitted sorrow for those he knew were going to suffer. That’s my definition of selfish. Mentally unwell, yes, but selfish and self loathing too? To me, without question. I’d book a cruise. Tell everyone to fuck all and get myself proper. This man was not crazy, he had options. It’s something I do not understand, and in turn my reaction of sorrow is highlighted with anger sprinkles. Hearing my family and husband weep without a way to console them is … foreign.

Against the anger I am very sad and frustrated, mad... but I don't hate him. I liked the man. A good deal. Here is my simple (somewhat?) dedication. Can start the song and read, of all my dedications ever.... this one really is... mm hm, and it's kinda a hand-in-hand, need the song with the note.




Dear John,

Well. Yeah. So, there’s that huh.

I wish I’d known you more. Of all I will remember of you is being a house staple. Every holiday, every meal there you were with a camera, politely watching the family going ons. I watch people crisply, and you were always in the background, but visible, not quite smiling always but interested in being with your family yet not wanting to be the star of it. I’m not sure I saw you laugh very often, but it seemed a capability.

If I had to pluck an adjective John, I would say generous and soft. Last Christmas you gave all the children valuable coins and your eyes lit up with such pride that you had provided something that meant a great deal to you as you explained the worth and value, pointing out how each was different and that you hand selected them by the year of each child's birth. That is probably the most I ever heard you speak in one sitting.

That some of your personal coin collection is now boxed in my spare bedroom preparing to collect dust gives me more pause than I can ever express. I know how proud you were of them. It’s humbling, so I’ll just polish them lightly and scurry away.

More humbling was watching my husband put on one of your suits, your watch, your cufflinks and the tie I had bought for your Christmas gift months before to attend your memorial. You'll be glad to know he looked sharp as you always did, but the cloth weighed on him like an anvil.

I hope you don’t mind being referred to as a house staple, it’s really a compliment, much like hugging ones’ mother and smelling her perfume…. It’s always there and something one relies on, perhaps takes for granted. And then one day it isn’t there anymore. Time is so short and I am very glad that I don't feel we had unsaid words, you know I love you.

Take good care of Bruce.

Yours,

DM.

Moral of the story - don't squander! Never go to bed angry or forget to say something you later might not be able to.

(read below if need to perk up after that)