So this weekend was pretty much terrible. It's taken me until now to actually write about it.
Writing about it makes it real.. makes it less of a dream.
If everyone is okay with it, I'm going to write this entry TO Jonathan... Because I find it easier than talking about someone... and because, well, I wish I could talk to him right now.
I'm normally pretty good with the coping, with the adapting to trauma. Taking grief in stride.
Which, if you think about it, is pretty sick. It's just the way I'd become, I suppose. I liked to think that, eventually, I'd grow out of it. Be able to mourn again. To cry for loved ones lost.
Well, I think I have. Seeing everyone this weekend changed everything. When I heard you were gone, suffice it to say, I was shocked. I didn't know what to feel, or how. It was like I didn't have those emotional pain sensors in me anymore. After awhile, I cried, but only because I felt like it was the appropriate thing to do. You were my best friend for the first seven years of my life. We did everything together, you were my constant, the one person I could depend on. Our relationship was never complex, we never hurt oneanother. When we spoke, it was easy, we laughed and we poked fun at eachother. And your parents, oh, they loved you so much... you are still their entire world. Seeing them this weekend was my breaking point. I grew up with your mom being like a parent to me. She yelled at me just like any other mom, and I think she even sent me to my room sometimes. Or everytime I entered a room, hearing your dad sing "Well, Golly Molly" (I always hated that). I grew up assuming your family WAS my family. I didn't know anything else. Seeing them fall apart was the hardest thing I think I've ever witnessed.
Having your mom collapse in my arms, hearing your dad say he was worried about her having a bath with supervision, it was like everything I knew, everything I had ever depended on, was gone in a flash. Sitting with your mom, while she sat flipping through photo albums of you, refusing to eat or tear her eyes away from your things for even a moment. The whole day is a blur of tears and prayers and having your mom whispering again and again that you were "such a good boy... never said a bad thing about anyone... always smiling".
And I met your daughter; she is so beautiful. She has your eyes. I heard from everyone that she was your entire world, that you loved her so much. That you practiced carrying the babyseat before she was even born... and it sounds just like you. She has your eyes.
It was so bizarre, being home again. I think I will always think of that town as home. Those people will always be my family. Your parents, and your brothers, Lois and John. No matter what I do in life, or where I go, I can still return and know without a doubt that there are people there who have my back no matter what, because they have since I could barely walk. It's one thing to be raised by a great family. But you and I, we were raised by an entire town. And loved. You were loved by that entire town, and even now, they are your biggest fans.
The last thing I said to your mom, was the thing I remember her always saying to me... "You're the daughter I never had, Molly" ... I told her to be strong, because she was the only mom I had left. She hugged me tighter than I have ever been hugged and whispered, "thank you"... and I had hope.
You were the ultimate example of "glass half full" kind of person.
I have faith, too, that everything will be alright.
